


Five Bullet Points

by Sperare



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Drug Withdrawal, Erik Has Feelings, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hurt Charles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Erik, Solitary Confinement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 44,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sperare/pseuds/Sperare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be Erik locked away in a prison one hundred stories below the ground.</p><p>Charles was never supposed to be there with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. -- --, --, 00:00

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, all! There are a couple of logistical issues to get out of the way right off: first, I can't promise that I'll be able to update this story as frequently as I updated Tuesday Plays the Piper. I'm relatively near to completing this, and I'm clear on how the plot will end up (a big thanks to Kernezelda for doing a read-over and giving me feedback!), but until I actually have everything written out, posting won't be as rapid as it's been in the past. Also, the format will be a bit different: chapters will be shorter, and multiple chapters might be posted at once.

**[-- --, --, 00:00]**  
  
In the darkest parts of Charles’ mind, stewing away in the bit of him that, against all hope to the contrary, cannot help but root out the possibility couched in Erik’s paranoia, there is a scenario: it’s shadowy and frayed at the edges, forced down into the corner of his mind where he never quite looks, but it’s there, and in the year after the school closes, he runs over the sequence of its events with a masochistic fascination for detail. Everything else is clouded in a haze of Hank’s serum and the furious burn of alcohol, but _this_ thought stays sharp, slicing into him when he’s least equipped to handle it.  
  
In his scenario, when they come, they come in force. They will break down the doors of the mansion and drag him and Hank out, physically manifesting what they’d done to his staff and the older students during the draft—and he will fight, but with the drugs and the alcohol, it won’t matter, and his mess of a self will be tossed into the back of a car, and Hank into another, separated, alone, always alone, because that’s what people do, isn’t it? They leave—or they’re taken. But the last thing the world will ever see of him will be a drunken, drug-addled recluse, and that’s all it will remember. He’s nothing. Pathetic.  
  
Possibly he ought to have taken measures to ensure these things never came to pass.  
  
Instead, he had another drink.  
  
In the end, though, they didn’t come at all.  
  
In the end, _he_ goes to _them_.  
  
Erik would have known better. Erik would have seen through the clever ruse of bureaucracy and paperwork, through the official letter that arrives at Westchester, and the phone call after phone call—everything that keeps on pounding away at Charles, until he agrees to go to Washington, if only to straighten the mess out, just to stop the noise of their persistence, to be left in peace.  
  
Hank was worried. Charles Xavier, all of the documents had said. Charles Xavier, head of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. But Charles Xavier had been in Cuba, had liaised with the CIA, and Hank had always been skeptical of opening Westchester without a pseudonym.  
  
He was right.  
  
Charles should have known better.  
  
Anonymity, he’d told Moira, would be the first line of defense. But anonymity is not opening a school under his own name, is not submitting the necessary paperwork with his signature at the bottom, is not petitioning the government to exempt his teachers from the draft. It wasn’t supposed to matter, years after Cuba, once the records had been sealed. And maybe, foolishly, in the back of his mind, pent up in the space that Erik always thought was privilege, he had assumed that his money would protect him. People will ask questions about the disappearance of a philanthropist, of an Oxford University graduate, and of a professor and head of a school.  
  
They do not, it turns out, ask the same questions of a recluse who, for all the space he carves out in the world any longer, might as well be dead already.  
  
A consultation, his letter had said. A simple consultation, something to do with biological warfare, and the effects on genetics. A duty to his country, since he couldn’t serve in the same way as everyone else. And once the letters had eventually begun to make threatening noises about—it was never quite clear what about. Not much was clear, and it could have been his own special brand of alcohol-and-drug-induced paranoia inserting vague references to Erik and Cuba into those letters. It could have been real. But he’d never showed them to Hank, too embarrassed, too riddled by the memories, and all he’d wanted was the letters and calls to go away and leave him in peace.  
  
 _Come to Washington_ , they’d said. _Offer us your expertise on this one simple thing, and we won’t have to keep bothering you._  
  
Just once more, they’d promised, and he could be left alone, could fade into the obscurity of an old house, good liquor, and rumpled sheets.  
  
He’d gone. He’d _gone_ , and walked straight into the Pentagon under his own volition, gritting his jaw and only stopping once in the washroom to vomit when the knowledge of what—whom—was one hundred floors down beneath his feet became too overwhelming.  
  
Erik. It was supposed to be Erik hidden deep beneath the ground.  
  
If he’d known it was his _own_ living tomb waiting all those stories below, he might have shot himself in the head prior and saved them the trouble of bringing him there at all.


	2. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:20

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:20]**

It begins like this:  
  
“Dr. Xavier.” Polite. Cold, but polite. The cup of tea in Charles’ hand has long since lost its heat, but, if there were any warmth left to it, the tenor of the man’s voice would probably leech it away. “If you’ll follow me, please.”  
  
It seems impolite to the maintenance staff to toss a half-full Styrofoam cup of liquid into the wastebasket, and so he leaves it on the table when he gets to his feet. The niggle of doubt that has plagued him throughout the flight—only settling when he shot up with the serum shortly before landing—redoubles as he falls into step, but it isn’t until the man leads him into an elevator that the doubt rushes over the banks of his mind and spills out into words: “You kept me waiting over forty minutes,” he informs the other man primly, brushing aside the fog of alcohol with practiced ease. “I think you could do me the courtesy of informing me of our destination.”  
  
The man—thin, middle-aged, balding, and—and—it’s all so _superficial_ : how do people _live_ , not measuring a man by his mind? This man is unremarkable without the brilliant _whir_ of thoughts. _Everyone_ is. The world is dull without thought. Dull—and safe. Quiet.  
  
When the man doesn’t immediately answer, Charles shoves his hand out to catch at the emergency stop button on the elevator. But, when the man _does_ move, thoughts would simply be redundant: his purpose is more than clear.  
  
Or, it would be, if not for the searing rip of pain when Charles’ head smashes into the wall, and the nauseating, engulfing darkness that drags him under immediately after.


	3. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:25

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:25]**  
  
When he swims back to consciousness, his mind stalls in a previous state: suspended as he is between two guards, face toward the floor, their arms hooked under his shoulders and his legs dragged across the floor behind him, it’s all too easy to forget that his legs are no longer paralyzed. He chokes out a startled half-gasp, and it’s only thanks to the friction of the floor against the tops of his shoes as they drag along behind him that he is reminded: paralyzed men don’t feel that drag.  
  
Right. Not paralyzed then. And no man worth anything will simply allow himself to be led away without a fight. Where are they? Where is— _where_ —?  
  
“G’off,” he snarls, still—fuck, he’s still—the serum he’d taken on the plane—and then the drink he’d had in the bathroom after he’d vomited—  
  
Drugs, alcohol, and a head injury. Not exactly a winning combination.  
  
“Let go—“ A little clearer this time, and he twists, kicking out. He gets one good jab in, knocking the back of the man’s knees and sending him stumbling forward, but, unfortunately, that destabilizes the only thing keeping _Charles_ upright, and he pitches forward, smashing his palms down onto the hard stone floor. Everything is gray here, dismal, no color—no—  
  
“No—“ He’s rolling, lashing out as best he can, but a fist crashes into his face, and he’s flipped over before he can collect his wits. Something hard snaps around his wrist—handcuffs, not metal, not—why aren’t they metal—?  
  
Ceramic.  
  
“Got him,” the guard grunts in the general direction of the other, who is just now staggering back to his feet and glowering so fervently that it’s a wonder he doesn’t simply give it up and go with a physical blow instead.  
  
“You can’t keep him in handcuffs.”  
  
The first man shrugs. “We’ll toss the key in with him.”  
  
What?  
  
But there’s no answer, and the first man keeps on dragging him forward, down to the end of hall, while the other remains at the head of the hallway, directly in Charles’ line of sight when the first man hooks his arms under Charles’ shoulders and drags him backwards across the floor. He kicks, of course, but he can’t get any leverage when the floor continually slips out from under him, the other man eating up the distance from point A to point B.  
  
Before the man stops moving, there’s an ominous grinding sound—not so bad if he could see, could know it’s not some monster out of his nightmares—that echoes all down the corridor. No amount of twisting gets him a look at it, at least not until the guard drags him around the bend of the wall, and—a door, it was a door. A door opening, sucking inward between the walls.  
  
Where are they going? Damn it, _where_ are they _going_?  
  
He must black out, though whether it’s for seconds or minutes, there’s no indication. It’s a matter of blinking his eyes open and not immediately recognizing anything more than the eye-scrubbing white of the ceiling. The hands are still on him, and ten or so feet away from his face there’s some sort of glass dome—not a dome, not curved quite like that, but all angles and lines.  
  
Doesn’t matter: rather than bothering with the glass, the man is already palming open a door within the wall. Like the other, it slides back into the wall, only this time the opening is below it: there’s a set of stairs descending down into the floor, and—oh, evidentially he’s about to get substantially better acquainted with those stairs, since the man is tugging him forward, lifting him up, tossing him like a useless sack of potatoes over his shoulder and carting him down the stairs.  
  
Strange staircases in white rooms? Thank you, no. What if he’s hallucinating? What if—but the blood smears too vibrantly red on the falls for it to be all in his mind, surely. And his fingers—clawing at the wall, fighting for traction and grip, and something smashing his hand. It hurts. Hallucinations never seem to hurt so clearly.  
  
But—but he’s wearing handcuffs. Oh, but that—he can still get his hands out, dig down—oh, no, that isn’t the wall. Doesn’t matter, though, when the man is unlocking his hands anyway, quick and jittery as he shoves in the key. But the end result is favorable: it’s easier to claw like this with free hands, grasping at—  
  
That’s the floor. He’s driving his fingers into the floor, and _that_ is what hurts.  
  
The floor: because the man has dropped him at the bottom of the stairs and lunged away back up toward the door. Good: there’s a flicker of hope and the easily squashed notion that the little bit of fight he’s clawed out of himself has done some sort of good.  
  
But when the door at the top of the stairs grinds back into place, and the room is plunged into darkness, good does exactly what it always seems to have done: it eats his mind alive and sets him to screaming in the dead of night when his memories and good intentions are there waiting—there, though the people who made the memories have left—to drive him mad.  
  
He screams. He kicks, smashing his feet into the wall, and flips, over and over, careening first into one wall and then into the other, flopping and flailing, until something in front of him breaks, and light pierces into the room. Another door, retracting back up into the ceiling.  
  
Too bright, too bright—  
  
And, just before he passes out, a figure hovers over him. A voice, and a word—  
  
He could swear it sounds like his name.


	4. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:31

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:31]**  
  
They’d updated the accommodations two days ago. After years in this cesspit sleeping on nothing better than a couple of folded blankets, the government has apparently decided that it is now necessary to install not only a bed, but also to augment the usual packages that they slip down to him: this time, instead of only one vacuum sealed pack of clothes, he receives two—and, just for a change of style, the second proudly sports a strip of cloth across the chest that reads 002.  
  
Perhaps they received a boost in their funding.  
  
It’s a wry thought, though not an especially likely one. They’re hardly going to spend any further funds on increasing the hospitability of the atmosphere in which they chose to enclose their late president’s accused killer.  
  
They knocked him out when delivering the bed, of course. Cowards: it’s little better than shooting fish in a barrel. A tranquilizer in his food, unexpected, and by the time he’d realized what was happening he’d already swallowed down enough for it to take effect. Doesn’t matter anyway: they drug him every couple of weeks, come in to clean the room, and leave before he ever wakes.  
  
When he’d woken, they’d been gone and the bed had been there, a square object against the side of the room. It’s only a mattress on floor level, enclosed by a box frame of plastic, but even without pillows, it’s more cushion than he’s had in years.  
  
Predictably, they hadn’t the courtesy to move him to the bed before leaving: he wakes to find himself sprawled on the floor where he’d fallen unconscious. There’s an ache in his back, and one of his limbs is asleep, but neither of those issues are at all unusual.  
  
But… the bed is an improvement. Worth a scrap of curiosity, anyway, and what else does he have to consider these days? A week, certainly, can be allotted to ruminating on the arrival of the bed, and then he can return to rehashing old mistakes and future plans. Possibly future mistakes, if he’s feeling especially maudlin. There are days when he is _._  
  
Two days: that’s as long as he lasts before his mind skips to better and grander topics—and it isn’t due to any mental blips.  
  
No. It’s _completely_ due to the opening of the room’s door. It’s not something he’s ever actually _seen_ open. If not for the tiny cracks in the wall, there would have been nothing at all to suggest that there was any exit to the cell, beyond the adjoining—and very Spartan—bathroom.  
  
Not until now, anyway.  
  
For years, time has warped and “now” has become the extent of his senses. Live much longer, and now becomes the future while somehow refusing to change, beyond the varying meals that are delivered every day. “Now” is nothing; now is nebulous.  
  
But, for the first time in years, this _is_ now. It’s far more important than a bit of drug in his food. An incident like that is merely a blip in an unchanging existence. But _this_ : it shatters past, present, and future. So many of his memories, and all his hopes for the future.  
  
Everything his changed when the man on the floor—the screaming, fighting mess of a man—tips his face upward, blinks once at Erik, and rolls his eyes back into his head, flickering off into unconsciousness.  
  
“ _Charles?_ ”  
 


	5. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:45

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:45]**  
  
This isn’t home. Twenty seconds back into consciousness, and Charles hasn’t opened his eyes, but sight isn’t needed to confirm such an apparent truth. Home is stale sheets that smell of his own general unwash—unless Hank has gotten fed up again and done the laundry. Even if he had, there would be the scent of alcohol on the air, and dust too, settling on everything. It used to make him sneeze, but these days his nose has gotten used to it.  
  
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had a bizarre dream as a result of a bender, but those dreams never last past waking—his hasn’t stooped to hallucinating quite yet—and at no point in the recent past has he woken to a bright light knocking on his eyelids, persistently demanding and threatening to slip in through the cracks and sear his retinas.  
  
Which is precisely what it does when he peaks his eyes open. Throwing up his arm helps, but—oh, maybe not. It’s been ages since he’s been this sore. But… that’s a natural consequence, surely, when two rather burly men toss you about an area filled with hard surfaces.  
  
“They dim the lights at night, you know. To simulate day and night. I’ve counted hours: they coordinate with the patterns of the year. Convenient. I’d hate to think I’m missing the seasons.”  
  
No. _No_. That—that voice isn’t possible. This _must_ still be a dream. Or perhaps those hallucinations have finally kicked in and overrun his mind. _Think._ There were the letters, the phone calls, Washington DC, being attacked, being dragged down to some sort of colorless prison….  
  
A prison in the Pentagon. A prison that had required a descent in an elevator. So, a prison _below_ the Pentagon.  
  
And all of that? All it really means is that the fingers curling around his wrist and dragging it away from his eyes—those fingers probably _do_ belong to the last person in the world he wants to see. Right? Last person he wants to see, yes. That’s been decided in long hours of sitting, useless, or lying in bed, remembering. Erik Lehnsherr is exactly where he belongs.  
  
But… Charles was never supposed to be there _with_ him.  
  
Beaten, drugged, possibly still a little drunk—doesn’t matter. Erik’s face swims into focus before him, and any restraint that’s left evaporates. Fuck this. Fuck it _all_. Erik left him on a beach, paralyzed, and Raven—  
  
Watching Erik’s face snap back under the force of the punch that lands solidly on his cheek may just end up being the highlight of the last few years. _Brilliant_. Better, even, watching Erik as he’s knocked back onto his ass, sprawling out on the ground beside the—bed? That is a bed. Why is there a bed, when there’s nothing else?  
  
“Good to see you too, old friend.”  
  
What? Erik—this isn’t _Erik_ , surely. Erik would never take a blow without retaliation, and, in the unlikely event that he did, he wouldn’t turn back around with an almost wry sort of understanding.  
  
But that could all be overlooked. Everything other than _friend_. Friend? They aren’t friends. Friends don’t paralyze each other. They don’t take _everything_. They aren’t—  
  
Erik is a pretty poor excuse for a friend, if that’s what he is.  
  
“And with… complete mobility too, I’d say.” Getting one hand down on the ground, Erik levers himself up onto his knees and slides back over toward the bed, perching himself, uninvited, on the edge. “There was a good amount of force behind that.”  
  
“No thanks to _you_.”  
  
There’s precious little thanks available at the moment. Beaten up and dumped… wherever here is—there’s not much to be said for the hospitality he’s been shown thus far. Damn it, though, if this headache would only let up, and why must a throbbing scull always be accompanied by the certainty that while he’s been asleep, something has crawled up and died in his mouth? The vomiting in the bathroom surely hadn’t helped, but—ugh, a scotch would be lovely, would wash the taste away quite nicely. A drink would help with _everything._  
  
Most of all, it would help to dull the shock that occurs when Erik reaches out and presses a damp cloth to his forehead, wiping away—oh, well, yes, blood. That would explain—the reason for cleaning, at least, though definitely not why Erik is offering care.  
  
If he were true to form, Erik would allow him to bleed out right here on the bed. Perhaps it isn’t a setting with enough drama. No guns, no missiles, no nuclear showdown.  
  
“Go away,” he snaps, slapping Erik’s hand.  
  
But Erik, though he does drop his hand, merely stares at him.  
  
Nice to know that Erik is no more inclined to heed him than he ever was. “What?” Shoving his hand down onto the bed, he pushes up into a sitting position, and—oh, dear, that’s far too much spinning. His free hand shoots to his forehead, trying to steady, grasping for any semblance of balance. But let it not be said that he’s unable to convey his opinions through it all: “I know you’re not in the habit of listening to me, but I can’t imagine _that_ would be overly objectionable to you. You’ve done it once before, after all.”  
  
Erik’s mouth tightens, and he blinks, but, beyond that, he doesn’t given any indication that the words have cut past the surface.  
  
“Charles…” Said slowly, with more pity than is healthy. “Look around you. Neither of us is going _anywhere_.”


	6. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:48

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 13:48]**  
  
This is not the Charles Xavier he’d met that night on the boat. That much is abundantly clear.  
  
Looks aside—and there’s so much that could be said on that alone—it’s obvious from the second Charles realizes exactly what company has been inflicted upon him: whoever this man is, he isn’t what he was.  
  
Charles used to smile. Even when frowning, there was a sweetness to him, a painful sort of vulnerability that had always incited a craving in Erik—to grab Charles, bundle him up and hide him away where the world couldn’t touch him.  
  
Didn’t matter, in the end. It wasn’t the _world_ that hurt him.  
  
And here, lying on the bed and snapping and snarling like an abused animal—this is the result. Charles. That sweetness is gone, and in its place are a thousand tiny razors, not particularly deadly, but sharp, and prepared to inflict a depth of incision that might not kill, but that will relentlessly hurt like hell.  
  
It’s hard to feel wronged by the blow Charles plants in his face. Charles could hit him a hundred more times, and it wouldn’t equate to what Erik has earned. And, more important than any momentary sting of a fist: that kind of attack needs power from the lower body in order to be that effective.  
  
Charles’ lower body is working. Charles’ _legs_ are working.  
  
And that won’t mean a damn thing if the most obvious explanation for this turn of events proves itself to also be the most accurate.  
  
All those warnings, and Charles never listened. Humans _fear_. They’re running scared, and they’ll battle their extinction. Charles—he’ll only be a casualty. Too dangerous to be allowed to run free, and too potentially valuable to kill off so easily. A simple solution, then: the same as they’d devised for Erik.  
  
Charles doesn’t understand it. At Erik’s words, he glances around the room, but his attention falters, and it draws back to Erik, laced with shame, as though he’s embarrassed to have followed any of Erik’s suggestions, even something as small as taking in his surroundings.  
  
“I…” He stops, licking his tongue over his lips. Pink tongue, red, red lips, and at least that’s the same as before: those tongue and lips had explored Erik’s skin night after night, and, even more than that, it’s a promise that Charles still _can_ smile, even if right now he looks as though he never will again. “Hank will know something is wrong when I don’t come home.”  
  
Hank. Not Alex. Certainly not Sean. Of the three who had left with Charles, only one remains. It’s tempting to ask what happened, but now is not the time. “He won’t be able to do anything about it.”  
  
It hurts, watching Charles’ face twist. His lips purse, and he jerks so violently that a few locks of hair drop down into his face. What happened? As octogenarian as those sweaters were, Charles had always been put together, if not fashionable. For him to become… this— _how_ did this happen? Shaggy, unkempt hair, red-rimmed eyes, dark circles— _how?_  
  
Once upon a time, Charles would have accepted it if Erik reached out, cupped his face and smoothed back that hair. Presently, Charles looks as though he’d sink his teeth into any hand that tried to touch him. And, as battered as Charles already is—cut to his forehead, bruise blooming on his cheek—a scuffle is best avoided, especially in light of how the last one turned out. Charles will be here for some time, and—  
  
Charles will be here for some time. The thought hits harder than the previous punch. In this claustrophobic, pristine prison, there’s nothing to do beyond remembering and thinking ahead, and Charles, damn him, had occupied the spaces of memory and future so very effectively. How many nights has he brought himself to his peak, curled underneath the thin blankets he’s been given, thoughts of Charles’ face, Charles’ body— _Charles_ —finally pushing him over?  
  
It’s the epitome of selfishness, to find pleasure in the fact that Charles is here, _with_ him, no longer only a memory. But of all the people who could have been tossed into his cell, Charles is the only one he would have wanted.  
  
“You’re not well,” he says slowly, watching Charles inch backwards up the bed, propping himself against the wall. A normal enough movement, but… there’s something off about it. His hand—there, that’s it: his hands flutter, brushing almost imperceptibly against his legs, though it’s difficult to tell the difference between a purposeful touch and a bout of shaking. It appears to be both.  
  
Charles eyes dart around the room again. “Hank will find a way to get me out.”  
  
Maybe. But it won’t happen overnight. “You’re in the most highly guarded building in the country.”  
  
Charles doesn’t look at him, but keeps on raking his eyes over the room, taking in its stark white walls. He never seemed quite so small before, but with the shaking, and the way he’s curled against the wall, as if ready for attack….  
  
When Charles doesn’t reply after nearly a minute, Erik sighs, stoking a hand over the bedding. It’s no less spartan than before, though there’s more of it now: several blankets, and a two pillows, though they’re thin and resemble the blocks of puff that are given out on flights. Damn trip to Argentina had been a nightmare, trying to avoid the woman to his right, who’d gained an unfortunate tendency to slip sideways from where she’d wedged her pillow against her neck, ending up on his shoulder instead.  
  
She probably wouldn’t have done that if she’d known just what he is.  
  
“What happened to you, Charles?” The words are out—not planned, and possibly inadvisable, but there’s no taking them back now. Doesn’t mean he wants to anyway. Charles is here. _Charles_. After so long.  
  
Or what’s left of Charles.  
  
This snarling, furious creature that turns on him with bared teeth and blown pupils, wedging his back against the wall in preparation for—what? What’s he preparing for? This isn’t like him. Is he sick? If he didn’t know better, he’d say Charles is on drugs, but Charles—certainly not _Charles_. Not such a brilliant mind. His Charles, always so clever. Charles loves his mind far too much to do it damage.  
  
Speaking of… “How did they find a way around your telepathy?”  
  
Something is wrong. Something is _very_ wrong. Questions like that shouldn’t make Charles flinch so badly that he knocks his head back into the wall. They shouldn’t make him flinch _at all_.  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
There was never any question that Charles was going to be angry. But this is beyond mere anger. This is ingrained bitterness, and it’s had time to fester. Does Charles think he doesn’t know the look of a person who’s marinated in his anger? Looking this anger in the eye is akin to meeting an old friend—a friend even older than Charles.  
  
“There’s nowhere for me to go, I’m afraid,” he answers dryly, tipping his chin toward the walls. “No matter what you might think of me, you’d best get accustomed to my company. And I can tell you from experience: down here, any company is better than being alone.”  
  
Charles just stares. “I know all about being alone, thank you,” he hisses after a moment, venom dripping in every word. “And I believe I have _you_ to thank for that.”  
  
And what a thank you it is: Charles heaves himself off the bed, more or less tossing himself to his feet and, with uncertain, uneven steps, he staggers over to the bathroom. There’s no door—only a space in the wall—but it puts him out of sight of the bed and, from the sound of it, he collapses down against the wall under the shower head, content for now with being out of Erik’s sight.  
  
It won’t last long. Charles may not know yet, but he’ll learn: time runs differently here, and, before long, those walls with start to close in on him.  
  
Being alone when that begins to happen is enough to drive any man out of his hiding place.


	7. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 18:00

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 18:00]**  
  
Dinner arrives on time.  
  
Charles doesn’t know this at first, of course: it’s a matter of hearing a clatter at the edge of the cell and, stupid, hopeful, he ignores the weakness in his legs and drags himself to his feet, clutching the doorframe and staggering into view. If someone has come, if there’s been a mistake—  
  
But there’s nothing. Only Erik climbing up off the bed to collect the two trays.  
  
Though he’s occupied with the trays, Erik tilts his head toward the bathroom while scooping up the deliveries. “The food isn’t so bad,” he says evenly, nodding at the trays in his hands.  
  
Not so bad. As though this is _normal_ , as though Erik is supremely undisturbed by the arrival of a cellmate—of the man that he paralyzed. Erik—it’s not clear precisely what he _should_ be doing, but this casual unaffectedness is not it.  
  
“Is that all you have to say to me?” he snarls, clinging to the doorframe. If Hank doesn’t come soon—if there’s no serum—  
  
“What would you have me say?” Erik asks calmly and, when it becomes clear that Charles isn’t going to easily join him, he sets one of the trays on the floor by the bed, beside a bag of cloth, and slides the cover off the top of his own tray.  
  
So many nights have been eaten up thinking of what he’d like Erik to say, what he’d like to say _to_ Erik. Faced with him now, though, Charles’ mind fizzes out and blanks, and he’s left staring, jaw clenched so hard that his head throbs with the beginnings of a headache… although that might be the need for the serum.  
  
Damn it, the _serum_. Shaking like this—Erik is going to notice. Hank—he needs Hank, needs him to bring—he _needs_ that serum. Without it, the voices come back… Erik’s voice will be loudest of all, pounding against his skull.  
  
No.  
  
Hank will find him. This is temporary. A few hours more and he’ll be able to slide a needle up into the crook of his arm, go to sleep in his own bed…  
  
Not have to think about Erik.  
  
It will all be a very bad dream, and, when it isn’t, he can pour himself another glass, and it will _seem_ like a dream anyway.  
  
Not like here, where the walls stare down at him, and Erik stares over at him, and his own mind is screaming at him from the inside of his skull. He’s losing time, both figuratively and literally: the minutes have blurred together, and, all the while, there’s a countdown to when his body fully pumps through the serum in his bloodstream and strands him again, helpless without his legs.  
  
Not here, not in front of Erik.  
  
“I don’t want you to say _anything_. I want—I want—“ His lips are dry, cracking now, and he stops, wetting them. “Are there cameras here?”  
  
Erik blinks. “Yes.”  
  
All right, yes, cameras mean that someone is watching, that they’ll hear him when he slams a fist into the wall, jarring his hand down to the bone. Worth it, though, if they’re listening, if they hear him—“I haven’t _done_ anything!” Shouted into thin air: he must appear insane, but they’ll hear him, and they have to let him go, they _have_ to, there’s no abiding these white walls if the thoughts come back and take his legs, and he’s left trapped in his own body, inside a tiny cell one hundred stories underground. “I’m an American citizen, and you can’t—you _can’t_ —“ He stops, chest heaving. Another blow to the wall, then another. “Fucking let me _out_ of here!”  
  
“Charles—“  
  
No. Slamming his palm into the wall, he digs his fingernails into the smooth surface and wrenches against it. Searing pain stabs up his fingertips and flays into his hand, but he keeps at it. “You can’t _do_ this!”  
  
“Charles!”  
  
“Let me go, let me go!”  
  
But at least the walls aren’t white anymore. The red, though—it isn’t much better. If he could climb those walls, get to the glass—but the wall slips against his fingers, and pulling back to curl his hand into a fist, to pound on the wall—that doesn’t do anything either, other than ricochet the pain further up his arm.   
  
Lashing out—but there’s something grabbing, touching, pulling him back, firm and warm against his back, and impossibly solid, worse than the wall because this new barrier curves to him, meeting his struggles, rather than standing unmoving and letting him have a go, damn it, why won’t—Erik, it’s Erik—why is Erik—?  
  
“Charles, stop it. Stop—“  
  
No, there’s no stopping it now. If Hank isn’t immediately coming, and if no one is opening up this hellhole to let him out, then he can’t—he can’t—  
  
The serum—  
  
Fingers clench around his wrists, manacle tight, and he’s hauled backward across the room, kicking and thrashing, but Erik is good at this, and by the time Erik collapses the both of them onto the bed, there’s no avoiding being tugged into his lap. Pitching back and forth helps gain him a glimmer of potential escape, but Erik quickly crushes it, clutching harder than ever and crisscrossing Charles arms over his chest, where Erik can hold his wrists and effectively straight-jacket him, pinning him, left wrist to right hip, and right wrist to left hip.  
  
“Let me _go_ , Erik!” There’s someone special to shout at now, and not a series of disembodied cameras.  
  
“Charles, _stop_. Look at your hands. Just _look_.”  
  
His hands? What about them? They’re pinned by Erik, and they’re a little messy. What—that—why are they messy? They aren’t supposed to be messy—  
  
Red. Lots of red. Red, and they hurt, and his nails are throbbing.  
  
“I don’t—I—what?”  
  
Erik shakes him. “You fool, you tore a nail clean off.”  
  
Tore a nail—what—? Doesn’t matter. Erik is holding, Erik is— “Let go!”  
  
“What is _wrong_ with you?!”  
  
Everything, and if anyone is at fault for that, it’s Erik. But—this is Erik, and Erik has always been stronger, and fighting him won’t work. But, stillness—yes, if he’s very still, Erik will let him up, and there’s always the bathroom, or—perhaps someone will hear him, if he tries again to shout at the cameras?  
  
Muscle by muscle: that’s it, relax, go limp, let Erik think….  
  
“What did they do to you, Charles?”  
  
A concussion to start, surely. His head is throbbing, and there’s the cut there. Probably, that’s not good. A concussion, with alcohol and the serum combined? No, that shouldn’t be—Hank would disapprove….  
  
“Have you lost—“ _[Are you crazy?]_ “—your mind?!”  
  
“No. Let go.”  
  
“Only if your promise not to try to climb the walls again. Fuck, Charles—“ _[What’s happened to you? That—smells like alcohol. Has he—is he_ drunk _?]_  
  
But Erik does let him go, and he’s scrambling forward onto his knees, away from Erik, pitching forward onto his feet, staggering, staggering, get away, get to the bathroom—  
  
He collapses with a cry halfway there.  
  
All it takes is a slice of nothing—no sensation—and his knees buckle, cracking down against the floor—there will be bruises—and sending his vision throbbing. But there—at his waist—already, there are hands steadying him.  
  
 _[They’ve hurt him. Drugged him, something—]_ “What’s wrong?” _[Why is he—? No. Stop. One thing at a time, put him back on the bed—]_  
  
“Get your hands off me,” he snarls, whipping around toward Erik and having a go at his hands, hitting until Erik lets go and backs off. “I don’t ever want you touching me again, after what you’ve done, and if you think I’m getting back on that bed with you, you have anoth—“  
  
Erik hadn’t said that aloud.  
  
Oh. _Oh_. No. No, that’s—No. No, no, no—  
  
“No. _Please_ , no—“  
  
 _[What did they give him? Hallucinogen?]_ “Calm down, we’ll figure something out—“ _[Not the kind of thing he wants to figure, with this shit hole fortified and damn near inescapable, but figure something, yes, something to calm him the hell down and get him sober again—]_  
  
“Stop. Stop talking. Stop.”  
  
“Charles—”  
  
“Stop.” Already the feeling is draining out of his legs, muscles going stiff. It’s like being paralyzed all over again. With Erik here, exactly like Cuba. Erik did it again, shot him again, and— “I can’t feel my legs.”  
  
A harsh exhale. “What?”  
  
“I can’t feel my legs. _I can’t feel my legs_.” Hot sand, and why is it so hot? Erik left, Raven left. Raven, come back, Raven, how could you, how could you, _howcouldyou_?  
  
But Hank says not to move, and so he won’t move. He’ll just close his eyes against the blinding sun, against the white, and why, Erik, why, why did you why are you gone why why why—?


	8. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 18:12

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 18:12]**  
  
There is something seriously wrong with Charles. That much would have been evident from the limp form weighing down his arms, but, if the fact that Charles has just fainted isn’t indication enough, the _tearing at the walls_ was a pretty damn good indictor.  
  
It’s a blessing that Charles passed out when he did. Already, he’s torn off a nail scrabbling at the wall and shouting at cameras he can’t see, and whatever the reason for his collapse, it’s cause for concern.  
  
Right, first order of business: get Charles back to the bed. Whatever is wrong with him, it can’t hurt to get him properly situated. They’ll proceed from there.  
  
Or possibly they will only encounter further problems: as soon as he gathers Charles up against his chest, it becomes undeniable that he’s lost weight. More than that, what he has left on him is not nearly as toned as it was: a person exercising regularly doesn’t feel like this. And Charles always exercised.  
  
What’s changed?  
  
Ha. What’s changed? There’s no point in even asking that question: _everything_ has changed. One need only look around at the walls to see that.  
  
Although, the walls are a bit more of a violent reminder than is strictly necessary. With Charles’ blood streaking them, it’s rather like being subjected to an especially enthusiastic piece of modern art. That level of twisted was never to Erik’s liking: bloodshed might be necessary, but there’s no use making an art form out of it.  
  
And Charles’ hands: he’s torn a nail off, and he’s still bleeding. God forbid the government could spring for the kind of funding it would take to give them _bandages_. Certainly not: they might even count it as gain if Erik were to bleed out—but Charles? Surely they have no actual quarrel with Charles, beyond his mutation.  
  
Though, for humans, that will always be quarrel enough. Difference of any kind is more than sufficient reason for humanity to shun, and Charles should have known it would end at an extreme like this, but, still… it’s difficult to look down at him and feel much more than pity. Pity, for an idealist without his ideals, and for a man who’s finally been forced to see the world in a starker light than eyes like his should have ever had to cope with.  
  
Sighing, Erik skims his fingers down Charles’ arm. It would make more sense to remove Charles’ shirt and get a look at any other damage, but the price of having Charles wake to find he’s been undressed in his sleep is simply not worth it. He’ll settle for rolling up the cuffs to keep them clear of the blood from Charles’ fingers. As horrid as Charles’ clothes are—do those trousers have a _flare_ at the bottom?—having a choice other than the dull grey uniform would be a blessing. If Charles can have that small comfort, then it’s worth trying to salvage his outfit.  
  
The buttons on the cuffs come undone easily enough. It’s disappointing to confirm that there’s not a trace of metal, but it’s not particularly soul-crushing—no more than usual—since it was never an expectation, nor even an especially well-formed hope. There’s no metal on Charles anywhere: they had to have stripped him of it before he was tossed down here. No belt, no metal in his trousers, nothing.  
  
Though, there was never any real hope that there would be. Call it a blessing. Hope only kills, when it’s coupled with unreasonable expectations.  
  
Flipping back the first layer of Charles’ cuff, he goes to do another turn, and—what _is_ that? Or, rather, _those_.  
  
There isn’t only one mark on Charles’ wrist, which could have been easily attributed to an injection given by the guards. No, what’s dotting Charles’ wrist, and—he yanks up the open sleeve. What is dotting Charles’ entire _arm—_ fuck, seeing men after the war, slumped against a wall, sightless, and people in the seedier areas of town when he was tracking Shaw... Those marks don’t belong on Charles. These are the signs of frequent injections. These are track marks. From the look of his skin, Charles has been using, and often.  
  
Using what, though?  
  
“What have you been doing?” he murmurs, and—it isn’t necessary for any sort of medical care, but this is _Charles_ , and sweeping the lank hair out of his face and tucking it behind one ear is the easiest, most natural thing in the world. The number of times Charles blinked open sleep-heavy eyes, yawning, hair in his face—and he’d always smiled, lips holding some sort of little secret pleasure, when Erik brushed the hair away from his eyes.  
  
The temptation was there in Cuba when Charles was sprawled out on his lap, injured and hurting. But his expression had been so wrong: there was none of the customary affection there, and the accusation of betrayal that had lingered in the blue made reaching down impossible. Eventually, it had driven Erik off and away altogether, leaving Charles to that woman.  
  
There have been a large number of mistakes in his life, but, of all of them, leaving Charles on that beach may be the most unforgivable.


	9. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 18:46

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 18:46]**  
  
It’s the little details at first. Snippets of a wetness on his face, a hand brushing his hair back—and they twine in with lack of reality, mingling into a dream. Shortly, a waking dream, of a sort.  
  
That is to say, he _is_ waking.  
  
“Hmmm?” Softness on his face tickles at his nerves and draws him in until he’s nuzzling into the cloth, chasing after it when its coolness slips away.  
  
Then, a point of pressure, down by his wrist. Touch, and a customary one, if it weren’t filled with such poignancy. When Erik touched him before, dragging a finger down his wrist, it had been far more about Erik’s fascination with the pulse-point—with the life just below the skin—than about _[He’s covered in them, all along his veins—]_  
  
Charles’ eyes snap open.  
  
And there, seated next to him on the bed, is Erik, watching him with an expression as even as his hand as he steadily draws the chilled cloth over Charles’ brow.  
  
“Feeling better?” he asks in a measured, slow rumble.  
  
No, actually. This has simply become a matter of not feeling _at all_.  
  
Erik appears to take his lack of answer as permission to press onward: he leans forward, looming further into Charles’ view. “If you remember—“ In a tone that highly suggests he believes that to be in question, damn him, _he has no right to criticize—_ “you tried to claw your way out through the walls.”  
  
No, don’t touch, don’t—but Erik’s presses his hand down on top of Charles’ own, threading their fingers together and preventing any escape. The movement pulls Erik’s arm across his own body, displaying the bulk of his shoulder in Charles’ line of sight. A quick bit of squirming, and he could lash out, hit Erik precisely where it would deaden the muscle—  
  
But, this time, he doesn’t have the benefit of his lower body: there’s no way to put force behind the blow.  
  
Don’t think like that. Don’t—all sensation hasn’t yet left, and the telepathy is spotty, and Hank could yet come.  
  
“I can’t be here.”  
  
“And where else _would_ you be?”  
  
 _Anywhere_ else. It must be—damn it, they’ve taken his watch, but it’s past dinner, so it must be later than five o’clock. That’s not actually especially relevant: these days, the dinner hour doesn’t mean much, considering it’s often a liquid meal, occasionally supplemented by whatever Hank has in the kitchen. Dinner hour, though: he’d probably be either in his study or his room, halfway to drunk by now. Drifting in a haze of alcohol is better than remembering.  
  
“I haven’t _done_ anything to deserve being here.”  
  
Erik shrugs. “You think that matters?”  
  
“Think it mat— _of course_ it matters!”  
  
 _[It sure as hell didn’t matter back when they launched those missiles at the people who had just saved their asses.]_  
  
“You—you want to fucking talk about Cuba? It’s a pretty damn good lesson in what I _don’t_ want, isn’t it, Erik? Or do think I _deserved_ to be left bleeding on a beach—“  
  
From the look on Erik’s face, it would be logical to conclude that he thinks he’s watching an extraordinary sight. His jaw slackens, and his mouth drops open, tongue peeking out from behind his teeth, darting forward and licking over his lips. He swallows, throat bobbing, but, as intense as his stare has become, he doesn’t speak.  
  
“What?” Charles snaps.  
  
Erik doesn’t blink. “I didn’t mention Cuba out loud.”


	10. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 19:13

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 19:13]**  
  
Whatever is wrong with Charles, it’s more than skin-deep. Paralysis aside—though judging by the raw rage in Charles’ eyes when Cuba was mentioned, it will never _be_ put aside—Charles Xavier in his right mind would never descend into full-blown horror at the mention of his powers.  
  
“No.” Blinking sightlessly, Charles wipes a hand over his face. There’s a hint of condensation there, thanks to the cloth now discarded on the floor, batted away by Charles upon waking. “That—you must be mistaken—“  
  
 _[I’m not]_ he thinks in Charles’ direction.  
  
Which, apparently, is not a good decision: the color seeps out of Charles’ face, and he smacks his hands down to the mattress, bracing himself and scooting backwards—moving his weight entirely by means of his arms.  
  
What the hell?  
  
If Charles is—wait, that’s not—what _is_ Charles doing?  
  
“ _No_.”  
  
With hands on either side of his head, he looks insane. Shaking-frantic-desperate kind of insane, and trying to block out the world with slammed-shut eyes and frenetic thrashing of his head, back and forth, hands gripping his temples for the duration.  
  
What _has happened_ to Charles?  
  
“Stop it, you’re going to hurt yourself.”  
  
Charles doesn’t take kindly to having his wrists seized and his hands pulled away from his head, but he hasn’t been receptive to anything since being thrown down here, so it isn’t exactly new. Why change now?  
  
But something is going to have to change—and a few things already have, several times in reverse, it would seem.  
  
Because Charles’ legs aren’t moving. A little, perhaps, but sluggishly, and without power behind the pathetic snatches of motion that he’s still accomplishing.  
  
“I thought they suppressed your telepathy.”  
  
Tipping backward, Charles sucks in a breath and, in the process, bears the curve of his neck. It’s pasty—a sickly kind of pale, only found on a person who hasn’t seen sunlight in far too long. Has Charles not been outside? He used to run. Hasn’t he been jogging? And he’d so enjoyed having lunch outside on occasion. Why would he stop doing that? With students to care for, there would be far more of a demand on his time, but surely it shouldn’t have resulted in _this_.  
  
“They—bloody hell, I need to get out of here.” A whine vibrates high in his throat, and he ducks his head away from Erik, grimacing and angling his face toward the floor.  
  
It ought to be absurd—and to some degree it is—sitting here, holding Charles’ wrists out away from his body, and watching him shake apart. But mostly? It’s a kick in the gut. Men never look good when they go to pieces, but there’s an especially heartbreaking quality to watching Charles deteriorate.  
  
“You aren’t leaving. Believe me: I’ve been down here long enough to know how it works.” It’s kinder to instill that now. If Charles’ keeps hoping, he’ll only drive himself mad. Should rescue come, it will come whether or not they’ve given up on it—and it’s better to stop hoping for anything immediate, when that hope will drive you mad.  
  
Not that Charles has far to go.  
  
“I _have_ to—“  
  
“It isn’t going to happen, Charles. Look at me.” No response. “ _Look at me_.”  
  
And Charles does. Slowly and shamefully, but he drags his gaze back straight on, sluggishly leveling up his eyes.  
  
Actually looking Charles in the face isn’t much of a comfort. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, and there are circles under his eyes, worsened by the sickly paleness of his skin. There’s fever there too—maybe not literal, but something is eating him from the inside.  
  
“Tell me what’s going on. When you were tossed in here, you could walk. But now your legs—“ He glances down at Charles’ lower half, “—aren’t moving. What’s wrong?”  
  
“I—“ He blinks rapidly, crumpling up his expression. This close, it’s easy to see the cracks in his lips, where the skin has dried and he’s begun to chew on the flaking bits of skin. “When these—“ A sharp breath, in which Charles stares deadly down at his legs. “When those start to go—“ _[This comes back.]_  
  
What?  
  
They’d blocked Charles’ telepathy, like the mutant-hating humans that they are—hadn’t they? If they hadn’t, Charles never would have been dragged down here in the first place.  
  
“Your legs—?”  
  
Charles laughs, long and low, and it’s the sheer anguish in the noise that really adds a punch. Charles—he sounds insane. Laughing at nothing, and blinking too quickly, fingers twitching, though his hands are pinned out to his sides.  
  
And then his expression shutters closed, his stare sharpening into a point of concentrated viciousness. “You ought to know, Erik.”  
  
All too well. But now is not the time to rehash old wrongs.  
  
“Tell me what they did to you,” he orders, giving Charles a little shake. Charles flops along with it, head lolling to the side as his face breaks out in a wide, bitter smile.  
  
“Why? Do you want to compare notes?”  
  
“Don’t be stupid.” But stupid has never been what Charles is. Naïve, idealistic—but never stupid. “If I don’t know what they did to you, I can’t help.”  
  
“I don’t _want_ your help.”  
  
“No. But you need it.”  
  
What Charles probably needs is not available: the troop of voyeuristic security officers monitors the cell, yes, probably gorging themselves on donuts and human self-righteousness while they watch the screens, but they seldom intervene. There were antibiotics, when there had been that infection in the wound gained from punching the wall in a fit of frustration, but that had taken a good few days after the infection first started. This isn’t exactly a request-and-receive system. No one is going to toss them a sedative just because it might be useful in easing Charles’ nerves.  
  
“What I _need_ is to go home. I need—I need—“  
  
Another hit, by the looks of it.  
  
“I need—“ _[get out of my head, shut up, shut up—]_  
  
Charles is exhibiting all the signs of early withdrawal—and a few more symptoms besides: drug addicts usually don’t lose the use of their legs while regaining their telepathy.  
  
“What have you been taking, Charles?” Another light shake.  
  
Charles’ whole body flops bonelessly, and he tips his head to the side, wincing and grimacing—and that’s something more than simply being shaken. Or, rather, Charles appears to want the shaking to continue, enough that he begins whipping his own head back and forth, stopping only to begin grinding his forehead down against his upper arm.  
  
 _[Let. Go.]_  
  
And he does. He drops Charles’ arms and leans back, giving him space.  
  
On the basis of the following reaction, a person might think Charles had been shot: he goes completely motionless, and, after sucking in a breath, he drops to his side on the bed, curling his arms up around his head.  
  
 _[I can hear you.]_  
  
Which is disconcerting, yes, since Charles will likely not approve of what he finds, but—why is _Charles_ frightened by that? He’s never been shy before about hearing the thoughts of others.  
  
 _[I can’t—I don’t want—]_  
  
Whatever he’s been taking, it’s been muffling his telepathy, obviously. The government must have known, and the guards likely only had to take advantage. They’ll have been planning it for a while, of course, but it wouldn’t be especially difficult: the mirrors Shaw had were free of metal and could be easily erected over the outside of every wall around this cell. Charles could then be cut off from whatever drug he was on without fear of his telepathy influencing anyone… other than his cellmate.  
  
Were they hoping Charles would destroy him?  
  
Or was it only a matter of like with like? Two powerful mutants, both neutralized in one place, imprisoned together for ease of access.  
  
They wouldn’t have cared about Charles’ withdrawal or about any of the obvious… _damages_ that he’s incurred since Cuba. Whatever is wrong with Charles would, to them, be little more than an interesting anecdote in Charles’ file.  
  
Paralysis, and an addition of telepathy-suppressing drugs. What a fascinating case study.  
  
Funny, but that’s precisely the same sort of logic Shaw once used.  
 

 


	11. Day 1, August 22, 1970, 21:28

**[Day 1, August 22, 1970, 21:28]**  
  
Erik hasn’t left.  
  
It’s been hours. _Surely_ it has been hours.  
  
The sensation in his legs is nearly gone, and, in spite of a large amount of teeth-grinding and rubbing his forehead frantically against the mattress, he can’t scrub away the awareness that telepathy brings. This time, though, it’s purely a conglomeration of Erik’s thoughts—no one else’s. There’s a certain sort of peace to that, in the familiarity, and the undiluted anger: raging furiously at every spare thought that drifts through his head seems justified when there’s no chance he may be catching the thoughts of some dear old lady or innocent toddler. This is _Erik_. He deserves every bit of ire directed his way.  
  
But, after hours with Erik propped against the side of the bed, waiting, the anger runs through Charles’ system and leaves weakness in its place.  
  
And… the exhaustion.  
  
It’s always like this after the serum. The few times when he’d gone off it—the shakiness follows, and the lack of desire to do anything more than lie in a heap and block out the world.  
  
That’s good, since there’s no hope of moving anyway. With his legs gone….  
  
“You should drink something.”  
  
Yes, but probably not what Erik is thinking. A good few fingers of scotch would be excellent right about now.  
  
 _[—thinner than he used to be, probably skipping meals—]_  
  
A glass bumps against his lip, and the shock is enough to prompt him to open his mouth: the liquid splashes in and reflex prompts him to swallow, though he jerks away seconds later—only for Erik’s hand to materialize at the back of his head, holding him steady.  
  
 _[I did this. His legs—]_  
  
A few more swallows, and Erik takes the glass away. Although, “glass” is too generous a term. The container Erik is holding is simple plastic.  
  
 _[—try getting him to eat some dinner—]_  
  
“I’m not hungry.”  
  
Which is a lie, but that’s easy to overlook in favor of Erik’s sudden stillness. His hand lingers, weaving into the tangled strands of hair, but—it’s been so long since hair mattered. Cut it off, let it grow: the only reason it’s long is because that’s easier than bothering to cut it.  
  
“You need to eat, Charles. You’re going through withdrawal. It will help flush things out more quickly if you have something in your sys—“  
  
Whatever lecture Erik was about to give is effectively silenced when the lights go out.  
  
Just like that. No warning. Nothing. Just darkness.  
  
Well, not complete darkness: there’s a soft glow from up above the glass in the room over them, though it might have been less disconcerting if it weren’t present. The shadows it casts are eerie, throwing Erik’s face into a landscape of sharp planes.  
  
Erik only sighs. “Happens every night. They simulate the cycles of the day—though, as far as I can tell, it’s not on sunrise and sunset so much as light and dark. They turn out the lights at the point when it’s fully dark outside.”  
  
How the hell could Erik possibly know—?  
  
“The hours aren’t right for sunrise and sunset. I’ve had plenty of time to think on that.”  
  
Implying that he’s had nothing else to do. Is this—if Hank doesn’t come—will this be life from now on if Hank doesn’t come—?  
  
Hank _will_ come.  
  
Unfortunately, if he doesn’t come in the next few minutes, asking for Erik’s assistance is going to become necessary. A trip to the toilet is simply unavoidable, unless he wants to face a far worse situation.  
  
“I tend to try to sleep for the length of time when the lights are out. It burns the hours.”  
  
So does a good, stiff drink.  
  
“Charles.”  
  
The amount of concern in that voice—and what right does Erik have to that concern? None. None _at all_.  
  
But when he doesn’t receive an answer, Erik pushes on, regardless of prerogative or rights or any of those things Erik never felt should bind him. “You need to get up.”  
  
“I thought you’d decided it was better to sleep while the lights were out?” he snaps back, pushing his face into the pillow.  
  
“Generally, people wash up before sleeping.”  
  
Generally, yes, though that’s not a strict rule anymore. There have been plenty of times in the recent past where he’s fallen into bed still clothed—or wearing lasts night’s sleepwear that he never bothered to change out of at all. But… the need for the toilet really is pressing.  
  
Literally. It’s pressing right against his kidneys.  
  
But getting to the toilet… walking….  
  
Pride or not, the list of options is abysmally short. Ask Erik, drag himself, or truly embrace shame and soil the bed.  
  
Not much of a question at all, really.  
  
“I can’t walk.”  
  
To Erik’s credit, he doesn’t hold out for an actual request. _[—if I can get his arm over my shoulder—]_ Asking for help would be the final indignity. Bad enough when it’s Hank receiving the request, but depending on Erik would wear things down too thin and chafe open wounds best kept closed.  
  
“Just—here—“ Reaching out, he digs his fingers down into Erik’s arm, then up to his shoulder where he can toss his arm around behind Erik’s neck and let Erik grip his wrist. Too much too fast, moving jostles, sets his vision spinning off like a top and crashing into the walls. Slamming his eyes shut only does so much, but getting this over with is—just get it over with. Let Erik hoist him up, plastering them together along their sides, hip to hip.  
  
Erik grunts under the exertion, but he’s… suffice to say, time in a prison cell has evidently not been too great a detriment to his ability to keep himself in shape. Nothing else to do all day—why not work off that energy with an obscene number of push-ups?  
  
Or by dragging a paraplegic man to the bathroom.  
  
This is humiliation. Right here. The very definition of it.  
  
 _[Hasn’t he been eating at all? He weighs less than he used to.]_  
  
Which Erik would know. Lowering him down from the ceiling after the plane crashed; propping him up after the bullet; and at night, in bed, when he would lie on top of Erik, held close….  
  
Erik is careful in his movements, taking care to navigate the doorframe—no door—without knocking either of them into it. Once inside the bathroom, he tugs them both over toward the wall, bending down and—there, hello, floor, old friend, precisely where he’d been earlier when he’d sat in here and refused to come out and grace Erik with his presence.  
  
“Here.”  
  
A wetted cloth plops itself in his lap unceremoniously. Funny, he hadn’t heard Erik run the tap. But—his mind drifts these days, all too easily. The drugs, maybe…. Doesn’t really matter. It wanders. That’s all there is to it.  
  
“If you’d rather wear the uniform to sleep in... I usually leave the overjacket and trousers off when sleeping and strip down to the pants and the shirt.”  
  
Yes, that’s obvious: he’s already doing so, tossing the jacket aside against the far wall. And… Erik in a sleeveless, tightly-fitted shirt is—fuck, those are not the sort of thoughts—not—they shouldn’t _be_ thoughts. This is _Erik_. Erik, who has done things that—that… unforgivable things.  
  
“You won’t be able to keeping wearing your own clothes. Not forever. They’ll need a wash, and—“  
  
“Fuck off,” he snaps, lolling his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. Oh, right, the cloth: but he doesn’t need to open his eyes in order to scrub it over his face and wipe away the traces of sweat and other things that shouldn’t be mentioned.  
  
Sweat, blood, and tears, as the saying goes.  
  
Ah, well: mentioned.  
  
There’s the temptation to suck on the cloth too, to rinse out the disgusting taste that lingers over the top of his tongue and in the crevices of his mouth. No need, though: Erik’s thought that through too, and he passes down a toothbrush and a tube of paste without another word.  
  
Two minutes later, the taste of blood mingles with mint, and he realizes he’s scrubbed so hard that his gums have begun to bleed.  
  
 _[—will need to pee—]_  
  
As if there’s any forgetting _that_.  
  
“I need to rinse my mouth,” he intones dully, pushing the mess of toothpaste and blood into the side of his cheek and pressing the words out past it.  
  
Erik doesn’t ask this time: he just leans down, heaving Charles’ arm over his shoulders, and standing up. It will never feel natural, seeing his lower half move without his own impetus. There’s some feeling left in his legs, but not enough to make it matter: without the serum, he won’t be walking on his own ever again.  
  
Tipping sideways, Erik leans him over the sink where he can spit and rinse his mouth with the little plastic glass, and get himself a drink while he’s at it. Stalling is no good, though, and soon enough there’s not much else to do beyond glancing at the toilet and allowing Erik to pull him over there, where he can begin fumbling with the clasp on his own trousers, and tugging his cock out of his pants while Erik holds him steady—  
  
 _[—always liked the way he felt in my hand.]_  
  
Damn it all, now is _not_ the time. There will never be a time. Not ever again. Erik laid next to him and kissed him, made love to him like he meant it, and he’d walked away later, and he had to have been lying, he _had_ to have been. Only a pretty illusion of sheets and skin. Kisses aren’t promises, even if they felt like it at the time.  
  
But it wasn’t a lie. Thoughts don’t lie. And Erik had thought—his thoughts had been brilliant, beautiful. Love. And—  
  
But he’d walked away. Left a bullet behind him and not much else. You don’t do that to someone you love. That can’t _be_ love.  
  
So: Erik is lying to _himself_ , and that’s far worse.  
  
 _[Can he still…?]_  
  
“If you’re going to think about my dick, you might pick a better time to do it,” he snaps. “And, yes, I can still get it up.” Most of the time. Not like it used to be. These days, it’s a better bet to try stimulation above the waist. Nipples, and the spot directly in the curve of his neck drives him wild…  
  
Erik tenses against him.  
  
“I wasn’t—” _[trying to make this worse than it has to be. I wasn’t—damn it, he can hear all of that—I’m sorry, all right? But if you’re going to listen in, I can’t help what you hear.]_  
  
“Then bloody well think about something else!” he spits back out at Erik, turning away to fix his eyes on the opposite wall. And, really, a piss has never before been so awkward. Both of them may pretend they aren’t looking, but this isn’t the kind of thing that can be ignored.  
  
Had they thought of this when they tossed him down here? Had they expected that Erik would help him with this? What if he hadn’t? Would they have let him lie in a puddle of his own filth until infection set in? No, he could have crawled, but—was that what they expected?  
  
“Done,” he mutters, trying to ignore the burning in his cheeks.  
  
Erik gives a grunt of affirmation and pointedly says nothing about how it isn’t quite a smooth process, zipping up the trousers and trying to pretend nothing has happened.  
  
Hank will come. He has to. If this is life from now on…  
  
Hank will come.  
  
“You really would be more comfortable sleeping in—“  
  
“I won’t be down here long enough for a change of clothes to be necessary.”  
  
A flash of images: Erik, slumping back against the white wall, staring at the plastic package containing a dull colored uniform, and another flash, a striped uniform, a yellow star, and back to the dull gray uniform, and the searing white of the walls, and desperation, monotony, is this all there is, forever now—?  
  
“No, no, no, no—“  
  
“Charles?”  
  
No amount of grinding his palms down against his temples helps. Why won’t the thoughts _stop_?  
  
“Don’t—Charles, you’re hurting—“  
  
Yes, hurting, because the pain dampens it, thank god. Bloody streaks from his nails raking across his temples. If that’s what it takes to stop the voices—  
  
But nothing stops, and he’s yanked forward and back out the door, out into the dimly lit room where Erik can drop him down on the bed and lean over him, dragging his hands down away from his temples and pinning them at his sides on the bed. There had been a time when that had meant something good, with Erik holding him down and leaning over him—and he’s solid now too, with a good heft to his chest, and—why is he lowering down, curling up—?  
  
Erik settles half on top of him, hands clasped tightly against Charles’ wrists, and, with one quick tug, flips them: when Erik tips over onto his back, there’s no choice but to follow him, and no amount of struggling changes that. Freedom doesn’t exist in this room.  
  
Even once they’re settled, Erik doesn’t let go, but keeps on holding his wrists, ignoring any curses directed his way. With his legs acting as dead weight, it doesn’t matter when Erik does finally let go, because it’s just as effective as having his lower half held down. All Erik needs to do to wrap him up is to snake an arm around his waist and hold his upper half still.  
  
 _[I’ll know if he panics in the night.]_  
  
But what Erik actually says is: “Are you cold?”  
  
Lift his head off Erik’s chest to answer properly? No. “I’m always cold.” Mostly in the ways that matter.  
  
But Erik knows that: _[I did this._ I _did this to him.]_  
  
“Go to sleep,” Erik murmurs as he tugs a blanket over them, other hand uncurling from its grip on Charles’ wrist and—it should be invasive, having Erik’s hand up cradling his head, but… when exhaustion is this pressing…  
  
Does it really matter?  
  
“You did, you know,” he murmurs, round about the time his eyes begin to slide closed.  
  
Erik tenses, but neither of his hands move. “What?”  
  
“You took the things that meant the most to me.”  
  
There’s a sharp spark of thought—of anger—but it dies unlit, and Erik only sighs. “Go to sleep,” he says again.  
  
 _[There will be all the time in the world for him to hate me later… do you hear that, Charles? Are you listening?]_  
  
“No. I stopped listening for you years ago.”  
  
A soft laugh. “Then why do you hear me?”  
  
Yes.  
  
Why indeed.


	12. Day 2, August 23, 1970, 08:24

**[Day 2, August 23, 1970, 08:24]**  
  
Charles doesn’t wake with the lights. That’s not unusual: he never woke with sunrise. He’s never been a morning person, and once that meant leaving him to sleep and going out for a run, having a shower, and getting ready for the day before Charles finally began to peel back his eyelids to reveal blurry, sleep-heavy eyes. He’d tangle himself in the blankets and curl, dragging himself into an impromptu nest, peering out from it as Erik dressed and watched him with amusement and a heavy dose of affection.  
  
Today, it means hours to lie here against him, studying every line and contour of his face. The arrival of breakfast doesn’t change that: Charles remains steadily asleep, frowning despite his unconsciousness. It takes reaching out and skimming a finger over the curve of his frown before the skin eases and Charles’ mouth relaxes.  
  
It’s been years.  
  
The gravity of that had been easier to ignore when he’d been alone in his cell. Years without companionship, and years without touch. But now with someone in his immediate proximity, the urge to reach out and _feel_ is nearly overwhelming. Charles won’t thank him today, nor tomorrow, not a week from now, and maybe not for months, but, eventually, he’ll welcome it too when the overpowering self-awareness gets to be too much and he craves the chance to reorient his physicality in the context of someone else.  
  
Looking forward to that day is cruel indeed, but…  
  
It has been _years_. Of all the people he’s dreamed of touching most, who have haunted him at night and have graced his fantasies, Charles is _everything._ Charles’ hatred, the scent of alcohol that clings to his clothes—none of that could drive away those cravings.  
  
But that doesn’t mean—that doesn’t—this is _Charles._ Charles, who was never supposed to be hurt, and who deserves every good thing, and who will now have none of what he deserves. Nothing but the littlest scraps.  
  
But what it _is_ possible to give Charles? Charles will have it. It will mean taking care of Charles in the best way possible. It’s selfish too, this need for any piece of Charles that he can grasp, but when requirements coincide, who is he to turn that away? A better man might refrain on principle alone, but… well…  
  
He isn’t a good man.  
  
Charles would tell him as much.  
  
Good enough, though, that he’ll do what’s best for Charles, regardless of whether or not it will endear him to the man in question. Catering to Charles’ whims when his whims are so terribly unstable—when _Charles_ is unstable—would do no one any good at all.  
  
And so:  
  
Skimming his fingers over the surface of Charles’ messy hair, he smoothes down a few strands and dips his fingers lower to Charles’ face, slipping his hand in between skin and pillow and lifting slightly.  
  
It achieves the desired effect: Charles moans and shifts, grimacing, but when he isn’t released he outright scowls and stirs a little more, trying to work himself away from the disturbance.  
  
“No. You need to wake up.” Bringing his other hand up, he trails the back of his fingers down the upturned side of Charles’ face. “You’ll go mad if you don’t follow some kind of rhythm. And you didn’t eat last night. You need to have breakfast.”  
  
There’s no reason to explain anything just yet: Charles is only half conscious and very obviously not listening, concentrating instead on blinking open sleep-heavy eyelids. It says something, that Charles doesn’t wake immediately at the sight of him. Though, after a few more seconds of insistence, he’s treated to an irritated mutter and—Charles’ hand, closing around his wrist.  
  
For a moment, he’s too stunned to move. It shouldn’t be like this: there’s nothing physically overwhelming about Charles’ fingers curling around his wrist, but—  
  
But nothing. Charles needs to wake fully and eat breakfast. And he needs to clean up. When the days are unstructured and completely monotonous, it’s too easy to allow one to fade into another, to lose a grip on time, and to imagine that showering tomorrow is good enough, despite not having done it for three days prior. Shaving, brushing teeth—it’s all surprisingly easy to disregard once the hours start fading together.  
  
From the look of it, Charles has already begun that process back in Westchester.  
  
It will be worse for him here. If he’s allowed to continue on as he already is, he’ll fight at first, rage like he has been, but soon enough he’ll fade into the walls themselves and become as pale and lifeless as the paint.  
  
Disregarding, of course, the violent streaks of red on one wall.  
  
“Charles.”  
  
The hand tightens.  
  
“Get up.”  
  
The trays of food delivered this morning are still resting on the floor near the remains of dinner from last night, and while he’s loathe to let go of Charles long enough to collect them, it’s the best option. Removing his hands from Charles’ face, he leans over and scoops up one of the trays, balancing it on the bed and popping the plastic lid off. Waffles this morning. Syrup. Some assorted fruit.  
  
The fruit will do well enough as a starter. Nudging a strawberry against Charles’ mouth gains the hoped for reaction: Charles parts his lips out of reflex, allowing the fruit to slide in along his tongue; he chews automatically, but, as the juice bursts out on his tongue, his eyes finally pop open and he rolls his upper half over, staring up at Erik blankly.  
  
It’s a thousand yard stare.  
  
That isn’t the look of someone who cares. It isn’t particularly the look of someone who wants to live, or who knows how to live anymore.  
  
What the hell has happened to Charles?  
  
“Here,” he murmurs, taking hold of Charles’ hips and flipping his lower body over along with his upper half.  
  
Charles says nothing.  
  
Coddling him won’t help. Indulging him will only allow him to keep on with this bizarre rejection of life.  
  
“You’re going to eat the rest of this,” he tells Charles’ firmly, dipping one of the waffles into the container of syrup before bringing it to Charles’ mouth. “Here.”  
  
Charles opens his mouth and accepts the bite, but that’s likely the last time he’ll agree so easily: clarity is seeping back into his gaze, and with it comes a stinging animosity. Already his eyes are chilling and narrowing at the corners.  
  
Sure enough, when he offers Charles another berry, Charles swats him away.  
  
“I thought it was a dream,” he breathes out, though he sounds less gobsmacked and more angry, as though their reality is personally Erik’s fault. Blame whoever is in proximity and all that. Understandable, if not justifiable.  
  
“It isn’t. Now, are you going to eat on your own, or do I have to keep feeding you?”  
  
Charles blinks. “How can you be so—so—“  
  
“I’ve been down here a long time.” Long enough to go mad and come out the other side. Certainly long enough to know how best to survive—and refusing to accept reality isn’t a functional technique. “Now sit up and _eat_.”  
  
Charles’ face freezes over. “No.”  
  
And here they are at an impasse. It was really a matter of time. Patience? Yes, all right, for now. They have all the time in the world: he can afford to be patient with Charles until the impasse becomes a breaking point. “Would you prefer to shower first?”  
  
“I would prefer that you _fuck off_.”  
  
And… breaking point. Fine. They can do this now and get it out of the way. If Charles needs proof that this isn’t a game, and that his surly behavior won’t be tolerated, that can be provided.  
  
“Shower it is, then.” Because it’s easier to force Charles into the shower than it is to make him eat. Shower doesn’t mean putting fingers anywhere near his mouth—no chance of being bitten. And either option will get Charles up and moving.  
  
“I’m not—“  
  
Yes, he is. Though he thrashes, lashing out with his arms and trying to hit, it’s no challenge to flip him over and get arms up under his shoulders, locking up Charles’ motion and preventing him from being able to reach behind him. He’s small, smaller than he used to be, and worryingly light: not a challenge at all. From there it’s a matter of dragging him out of bed and across the floor toward the bathroom.  
  
It’s completely disturbing how Charles’ legs drag behind him—totally dead weight—despite the thrashing of his torso and the insults that he’s spewing.   
  
Next question, then: shower with Charles or wait until he’s done? Undoubtedly easier to shower _with_ him, but, given their history, it may not be worth it. The number of times they’ve showered together before, they’ve definitely set a precedent, but it’s a good bet that Charles isn’t going to be amenable to following that precedent and fucking up against the wall this time around.  
  
Although, Charles can’t stand, so that’s not actually a concern—though his inability to stand _is._ Without a chair or a seat, he won’t be able to do much by himself.  
  
Both of them in the shower at once, then, and while it’s out of necessity, there’s no denying the pleased tingle that ricochets down his spine. How many times has he jerked himself off in this shower, thinking of Charles? Wet tiles under his palm as he braces himself against the wall, jacks his cock slowly and remembers pretty red lips in place of his hand….  
  
“Can you undress yourself, or do you need help?”  
  
“You’re insane! I won’t—not with _you._ I’m not desperate. I’m not—“ He chokes down a breath. “I can _hear_ you! I don’t want you! You disgust me!”  
  
That stings more than it should when coming from a drug-addled, half-crazy shell of a man who has managed to lock himself away from the world prior to actually being tossed into a prison. Insane as it seems, being here might have benefits for Charles: he wasn’t doing himself any favors back in Westchester anyway, and at least here he’ll be forced to sober up.  
  
“Oh, fuck you, you don’t know anything about my life. You don’t have a _right_ to know anything. You walked away and left me paralyzed and at the tender mercy of the armies of two world superpowers, and you think you have a right to judge how I dealt with that—“  
  
Not a right, no, but definitely a duty. Charles is correct. He fucked up. He didn’t think, heard only heard Charles’ rejection and had lost himself on the high of killing Shaw and the shock of hurting Charles, and it had all come together terribly. As soon as they’d gone, the regret had slipped in, and he’d been on the brink of asking Azazel to bring him back, but then there had been the cold fear of Charles rejecting him a second time, and… he hadn’t been able to do it.  
  
 _[You’re lying. You were_ always _lying—]_  
  
“If you’re in my head then you know I’m not lying. About any of it.” There was never any lie about what had been said between them. If it had been—if any ounce of it had been insincere—this many years to think—to do nothing else _but_ think—it would have cured any romantic notions. He loves Charles. End of story.  
  
 _[Get_ away _from me!]_  
  
And sometimes love means doing what’s best for the other person regardless of his preferences. Charles will adapt to a routine: he will _not_ be allowed to lie in bed and wallow in his misery. If that means throwing him in the shower fully clothed then so be it, but it seems a better idea to undress him first.  
  
Better, not easier: Charles’ attempts to land a few good blows abolish the possibility of easy. He squirms and snarls and, at one point, accidentally smacks his own arm into the wall hard enough that he cries out and gasps, cringing back in on himself from the pain.  
  
And, finally, he _really_ lashes out. Mentally. It was a matter of time, honestly.  
  
But that doesn’t it make it any less agonizing when Charles’ thoughts come slamming into Erik’s mind.


	13. Day 2, August 23, 1970, 08:36

**[Day 2, August 23, 1970, 08:36]**  
  
No, get off—don’t—don’t _touch—_  
  
Erik’s mind splits open under his, shredding backwards against the invasion. There’s a spike of pain, of sudden realization, and—  
  
“Erik?”  
  
He shouldn’t care, but—fingers to Erik’s jaw, pressing with the hand that isn’t throbbing from hitting the wall. And all these _thoughts…_  
  
Hurt and madness, monotony, remorse, arousal, hatred, fear, and—memories, floating at the surface. The beach and hot sand, regret—bloody hell, _so much_ regret—and the bitter taste of missing someone.  
  
Missing someone, for years and years on end, surrounded by white and the throbbing ever-present feeling of it, examined so often and so thoroughly that the spot has been rubbed raw and the thoughts are overused. There’s so much guilt. It hurts, plunging down into Erik’s guilt.  
  
 _[Sorry, truly sorry—]_ drifts through the link, though without any particular direction. If Erik isn’t thinking it directly… how long has it been hanging there, just a disembodied thought ingrained in Erik’s consciousness and experienced too deeply to dislodge itself?  
  
Erik is _sorry_. For Cuba. He is sorry on such a fundamental level that the thought is perpetually hanging in his mind. _[Sorry.]_  
  
Oh.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
And—more too, right on the edge of his consciousness. Deeply held convictions, and—innocence? He’s—Erik thinks he’s innocent? He shot the president. There’s nothing innocent there. He deserves to be down here, of course he does. But Erik—he doesn’t think—is sure—Erik is _sure—_  
  
 _Innocent, innocent._  
  
Damn it. Damn… everything. Down here. They’re going to be down here forever, and his legs—his legs—  
  
“Charles?”  
  
Oh. He’s—somehow, he’s let go, let Erik’s mind free itself. It—it’s—was reading minds always so exhausting?  
  
His legs…  
  
Oh, fuck, his legs…  
  
“I can’t feel my legs.”  
  
A sharp silence, and then… “I know.” The way Erik says it, it’s soft and sad, gentle, like his hands when they return to plucking at buttons and peeling back cloth. That isn’t right. Shouldn’t he be recoiling? Disgusted? Angry? Taking someone’s mind away—like the nanny when he was a child, and she’d been so scared. She’d screamed at him to stay away, but Erik is back again, exactly as insistent as he was before.  
  
“Are you really sorry?”  
  
That gets Erik’s attention and causes him to pause. “Yes.”  
  
And he sounds so _honest_ too. If he wanted to be sure of Erik’s honesty, he could look—he has _already_ looked— “I—when my powers come back, my legs…”  
  
“I know, Charles.” But it’s not reproachful. Merely sad. “What have you been taking for your legs?”  
  
Anything for the serum, it would be a fair trade. Just—but it’s not so bad, only hearing Erik. Not like all those other voices, but, still, in this tiny prison, it’s so claustrophobic. And to not be able to walk when the guards come, if they come, _when_ they come…  
  
Hands shake him. Oh. Erik. “What have you been taking, Charles?”  
  
“A serum. Hank made it.”  
  
“Did he know it would cause withdrawals?” Erik finishes fumbling with Charles’ shirt and begins peeling it away. It’s not so bad. The shirt smells terrible anyway, all sweaty and reeking of panic.  
  
“That’s not it.” Not a withdrawal, or not the way Erik thinks, anyway. “It’s not the serum.”  
  
But possibly the alcohol. And the panic. What he wouldn’t give for a drink…  
  
“You’re strung out on something. You aren’t acting like yourself.”  
  
Trousers now—so much easier with the fly cut out and only a button left—sliding down off his legs, though Erik paused to shuck his own shirt prior. Erik’s right: the last time they showered together, it hadn’t been anything like this. Erik can’t have thought this through. But… it isn’t cruelty that’s driving him. He’s sorry. He really is.  
  
All these years, and hearing those words…  
  
All right. This is—it isn’t doing any favors, panicking. The walls—the walls are so close and so bright, but it’s only Erik’s mind battering at him. He can erect shields back up, and it is _only_ Erik. It isn’t the whole world this time, not like it was the other few times he went off the serum. It’s only one mind. It’s only Erik, and Erik is sorry.  
  
“It’s the telepathy,” he croaks out as his trousers slide out from under him and are unceremoniously tossed into the corner. “I can hear…”  
  
“And you’re scared.”  
  
The way Erik says it, it seems such an easy thing.  
  
“I didn’t want to _hear_. But… it’s only you.”  
  
Erik glances up, raking his gaze along the walls. “They must have lined the outer walls. A few of those mirrors that Shaw had would do it. I haven’t bothered to notice the guards who delivered the food in the last few days, but if they found a way to make headgear out of the glass, it wouldn’t be hard at all to block you off.”  
  
“I can’t stay here.” And already his breathing is picking up, spiraling off into that place of raw panic. These white walls, and being unable to move—  
  
“Charles.”  
  
Erik.  
  
Snapping his head around, he stares upward at Erik. He’s naked now too, and he seems to have embraced that fully: his expression is curiously open, clothslining his determination across his face. “I’m going to turn the water on, and we’re going to have a shower. And then we’re going to eat breakfast. Can you handle that?”  
  
Everything is so _close_. “But the _walls_ …” It comes out pitiably, almost a whine.  
  
Erik’s hand catches at his chin, forcing him to keep eye contact. “I know. Believe me, I _do_.”  
  
Seven years. Has it been seven years? The months are so difficult to count, and the math rips through his already shredded nerves. The mansion was workable, where no one bothered him and he could think in peace and walk when he wanted. But here, with everything closing in, all his failures and fears are raining down all at once, and—  
  
It’s so hard to think.  
  
He shudders out a breath. “A shower. Yes.”  
  
Erik nods. “All right.” Taking that as the permission that it actually is, Erik slips around behind him, snaking a hand around his waist, and lifting him up. With his free hand he reaches for the nozzle and, pulling them both out of the way of the spray, turns it on. The water will warm soon, and, in the meantime, they can wait off to the side, with Erik holding him like the broken, useless thing that he is. Little better than a ragdoll these days.  
  
Dying in Cuba would have been better.  
  
“Charles?”  
  
“Mmhmm.” It’s said half to the wall, but Erik hears it anyway over the noise of the water washing down the drain. No stall, no curtain, but just a slightly lowered area in the floor where the drain is, and the shower nozzle hanging above.  
  
“I truly _am_ sorry. For Cuba.”  
  
He licks his lips. “I know.”  
  
He does. He _does_ know. But is knowing enough?


	14. Day 2, August 23, 1970, 08:52

**[Day 2, August 23, 1970, 08:52]**  
  
Washing Charles is far easier than it should have been. He’s light, and now that the fight has gone out of him, he’s amenable to being moved about. It isn’t much of an improvement. This new phase feels more like resignation, and it isn’t helped by the way Charles continually keeps eyeing the walls, licking his lips and zoning out.  
  
Charles may say this isn’t withdrawal, but there’s no reason to believe that isn’t a part of it. Charles is probably right, though, to some degree: there’s more to it than that.  
  
It should have been immediately obvious: the way that Charles repeated that one phrase, over and over— _I can’t feel my legs_ —while panicking and detaching himself from the situation—how many men did that when they were fresh out of the camps? They’d wake with their minds somewhere else, some of them even slipping away in broad daylight like Charles is doing. Combine withdrawal—mild or not—with alcoholism, terror at being locked away in a tiny white room, the stress of being confronted by the person responsible for his paralysis—it’s true, and there’s no point denying it—the onset of his telepathy, and the loss of his legs and the resulting fear of being unable to move himself, and it’s a wonder Charles is even partially sane.  
  
All that and all he’s getting are flashbacks? He ought to be _commended._  
  
Once he’s worked shampoo through Charles’ hair—there’s so much of it now—and his own and soaped them both up—handing Charles the soap for the more… intimate areas—he rinses them down and then pulls them out from under the spray. There’s only one towel, but he wipes Charles down first and then places him in the corner of the room. Charles, for his part, only lolls his head to the side and tracks Erik with his eyes as Erik returns to the other room in order to collect the uniforms.  
  
Charles’ other clothes smell terribly—too badly to be put on again. It’s perfectly understandable how Charles grimaces at the prospect of the uniforms, but cleanliness is more important than pride. Going naked is an option—to hell with the security guards, they’d probably appreciate the shattering of their monotony—but there’s always a chill in the air that never quite fades.  
  
Chill or not, though, it doesn’t make it any easier to help Charles into the dull-colored clothing. The shades suck the life out of his skin, and that—there’s no need for that. There’s plenty of lifelessness in Charles already. It’s the worst when it comes to his legs, and to taking a hold of one senseless foot at a time, slipping it into the leg of the trousers, pretending he isn’t looking, pretending he isn’t seeing Charles refusing to look.  
  
It’s _awful_.  
  
There are a lot of things that he’s had to face in this world, but looking at the physical evidence of a mistake that was so preventable— _stop_ the bullet, don’t deflect it, _of course_ Charles didn’t stay lying down safe in the sand and out of the trajectory—is a special kind of hell that makes him want to turn away.  
  
Turn away to where, though? Toward the mocking white walls?  
  
There’s no running down here, and the least he can do is face what he’s done.  
  
Once Charles is dressed, they somehow cooperate in a messy conglomeration of limbs, tugging Charles back out of the bathroom and over to the bed. It would be easier to simply scoop Charles up into a bridal carry, but Charles likely wouldn’t appreciate that, and it’s too early in their tentative truce to begin testing the boundaries again.  
  
Boundaries. Ha. Boundaries don’t exist down here. Either of them takes a breath, and the government knows about it. Hiding from each other is just stupid. But… Charles is fragile. Charles is…  
  
Charles needs this, so they’ll pretend until they’re both insane. Nurse a happy little fantasy, pretending to respect boundaries and to understand privacy, and when it all breaks down, reality will still be there, waiting. It’ll only have been delayed a little while.  
  
Speaking of boundaries: at least this time breakfast isn’t the kind of production that requires force-feeding Charles the food. He eats the rest of breakfast without protest, though he’s mechanical about it, ignoring anything that even resembles an attempt at conversation. Occasionally there’s the sensation of his mental presence, brushing up against any surface thoughts, but it’s not often, and Charles doesn’t acknowledge it.  
  
Just… bite and chew, bite and chew. But at least he’s eating. As thin as he is, he can’t have been doing much of that. Hasn’t Hank had anything to say regarding nutrition and scientific data, and maybe, oh, _common sense_ that says you _have to eat to live_?  
  
“He tried.”  
  
Hearing Charles speak is about the same as sucker-punching the silence, and, in the process, pummeling the composure of anyone who didn’t know they were listening. It isn’t pleasant to know that Charles hasn’t lost the element of surprise.  
  
“He obviously didn’t try hard enough.”  
  
Trying would have meant shoving the food down Charles’ throat if it were necessary.  
  
“Will _you_ do that if I refuse to eat?” It’s said calmly, evenly—and it’s scary, because that’s what someone sounds like when they’ve already stopped living. It’s just… resignation.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
And it’s true.  
  
It’s completely true, and it’s too real. It’s Charles, watching with that dead stare, already half dead before he was buried alive, and whose fault is that?  
  
It’s nothing better than looking condemnation in the face.  
  
“Finish your food,” he tells Charles.  
  
And slowly, mechanically, Charles does.


	15. Day 2, August 23, 1970, 11:37

**[Day 2, August 23, 1970, 11:37]**  
  
Erik is doing push-ups. The flex of his arm muscles catches the harsh glow of the artificial lighting and makes the sweat gleam with an unnatural pallor that turns his skin a sickly color. Nothing looks right down here. Nothing.  
  
Thirty-three, thirty-four—  
  
Erik has filled out in his time down here: he’s actually more solid than before, with a bit more heft to him. Must be all the push-ups.  
  
Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty—  
  
Would the line of his arm taste the same as it had before, warm and smooth, and—?  
  
No. No, this is—there’s too much already, and Erik, what he had with Erik—aren’t seven years enough to know that there’s no better means of torment than thinking back on the better parts of Erik? Sorry doesn’t erase that danger. Erik can _be_ sorry, and it doesn’t change a thing.  
  
Forty-four, forty-five—  
  
Turning over, Charles fixes his eyes on the opposite wall and curls his arms up to his chest. Hank will come soon. He’ll be back where he belongs, and Erik will stay _here_ , where _he_ belongs. Hank _will_ come soon.  
  
Forty-eight, forty-nine—  
  
Erik stops when he hits fifty.


	16. Day 2, August 23, 1970, 14:01

**[Day 2, August 23, 1970, 14:01]**  
  
“I’m still in love with you.”  
  
It’s a stupid thing to say. It’s possibly the absolute worst thing that he could say under the circumstances, but it’s also the one thing that’s guaranteed to gain a reaction, and considering that Charles has been lying on his side, utterly unmoving ever since he choked down his lunch, at this point a bad reaction is better than no reaction at all.  
  
If Charles wants to fade away, he’s damn well going to have to fight to do it.  
  
And poor Charles—poor, predictable Charles. Predictability makes you vulnerable, and Charles would have been shit in any career that required him to dirty his soft, ink-stained academic’s hands. The camps, Shaw—he would have been in the first round gassed. A thing as small as tensing, seizing up when he hears words—he never would have made it.  
  
 _[I’m not sure you_ did _]_ Charles’ mental voice snaps. _[The best of you died in that camp. Or were you always this cruel?]_  
  
Best to pretend that’s not the slap in the face that it certainly feels like. “I’m not trying to be cruel.”  
  
“Then perhaps you _should_. Things seem to go the worst with you when you _don’t_ try to cause harm.”  
  
Like accidentally deflecting a bullet into a friend’s spine. Yes, point taken.  
  
“I mean it. I love you.”  
  
“Fuck off, Erik.”  
  
“Why? It’s what you want to hear.”  
  
“Yes. And that’s why I know it’s too good to be true.”  
  
Charles, for all his amazing capacity for intelligence, is at times painfully lacking in sense. “You’re a telepath. You _know_ when I’m lying.”  
  
“No. I don’t. Not if _you_ believe what you’re saying.”  
  
“If _I_ believe it—“  
  
“Just because you believe it doesn’t mean it’s true.”  
  
No. Charles doesn’t get to play this game. He doesn’t get the benefit of wallowing in his own sense of being misunderstood when _he_ is the one misunderstanding. It was a stupid thing to say, yes, but it’s _true_. It would be the most convenient thing in the world if it were false—loving Charles is the most inconvenient of all possibilities—but if it has to be suffered through, then Charles will damn well put up with suffering right alongside.  
  
“I’m not going to have some sort of bizarre existential, philosophical conversation with you,” he snaps back finally—but Charles hasn’t moved off the bed, and scattering angry words down between them doesn’t promise to do much to coax him into moving.  
  
Coaxing, though, may not be the most effective method.  
  
Riling Charles, on the other hand…  
  
“I’m not sure you’re capable of rational discussion at this point anyway,” he pushes on, and Charles can likely hear the wavering truth in that, but if he’s listening then he’ll also hear that it’s exactly that: _wavering_. Neither completely true nor completely false. _[Convince me you’re sane.]_ “You may not be scratching the walls anymore, Charles, but you’re not doing much to demonstrate that you’re mentally competent.”  
  
“Get out of my head!”  
  
That’s basically the height of irony. “You aren’t eating unless prompted, you’re refusing to move, and you—a vaunted scientific mind—didn’t even have the wherewithal to take a look at the man who delivered lunch, despite our earlier conversation. He was wearing a helmet, by the way, in case you were wondering.”  
  
 _[You’re basing your assessment of my mental state on whether or not I noticed our captors’ headgear?]_  
  
“I’m basing my assessment of your mental state on the fact that you don’t care. Details like that can make a difference, Charles.”  
  
 _[In what? Escape? Lot of good that’s done you so far.]_ And then, caught in no man’s land in the airspace between them, there’s a snatch of thought that Charles probably didn’t mean to send: _[Hank will come.]_  
  
“No one is coming for you. We’re on our own.”  
  
 _[_ You _are on your own.]_  
  
“Charles.”  
  
A moment, and it seems Charles won’t answer, but… “What?”  
  
That one word—all it ever took from Charles was a word. Maybe not in the things he wanted—those missiles would never have been released based on any kind of verbal reasoning, no matter what Charles came up with—but in the things that meant the most: a word from Charles has always commanded _him_ , if not his actions. What he wants and what he has to do have been separate things ever since the day Shaw shot his mother. Perhaps before. Broken glass, yellow stars….  
  
The floor is hard under his knees when he drops next to the bed, curving a hand to Charles’ shoulder almost before he’s properly kneeling. “I should never have left you before, no matter what you said to me.” They _do_ want the same things, though they have very different ways of trying to achieve their ends. “And I won’t leave you now.”  
  
Nothing. Not at first. But nothing is a void, and it’s only once Charles starts breathing again that it becomes clear he’d stopped in the first place. “Everyone leaves, Erik,” he says tiredly, turning his face down into the pillow.  
  
Like everyone left on the beach. Leaving that day—leaving Charles— “I did once. I won’t do it again.” That’s a promise.  
  
 _[You can’t_ make _a promise like that.]_  
  
Sliding his hand upward, he flips it over, trailing his knuckle over the side of Charles’ neck. The flesh there is slightly clammy, and when he pauses over Charles’ pulse point he can feel the beat skittering against his touch. So much for being unaffected. _[Of course I can, Charles. The question is: do_ you _believe it?]_  
  
Charles bats the touch away with a lethargic swing of his arm. “No. I do not.”  
  
“Well.” Years of solitude, and now this. If it wouldn’t make _him_ look like the crazy one, he’d sit back and laugh. It wouldn’t be so far off base: these damned walls, and the lack of noise for years and years, and now there’s Charles, now there is _life_. They’ll be all right. Together. The both of them. They’ll figure this out. “Well,” he says again, curling his tongue around the word. It tastes good: before Charles, there were weeks at a time without speaking. “I have all the time in the world to wait for you to believe me.”  
  
Yes. And all the motivation to see to it that Charles _does._  
  
It sounds like a threat. It might be a promise. But it _is_ the truth.


	17. Day 2, August 23, 1970, 18:47

**[Day 2, August 23, 1970, 18:47]**  
  
Mashed potatoes and chicken. No bones. Boneless, fried chicken. There’s too much fat on it, and he picks at it, ignoring Erik’s perturbed glances. To hell with it, though—Erik has valid reasoning. He always did, when it came to food. He cleans his plate thoroughly, no matter what he’s given; wasting food never sat well with him. Fine, that’s—it’s understandable, but those sideways glances are maddening just the same.  
  
“Have the rest of it,” he finally snaps, pushing the tray toward Erik. No table, no chairs, so they’re sitting propped against the bed. All it takes is planting his hands behind him and then levering up, pushing himself back, and he’s able to flop easily across the surface.  
  
That is, until he’s suddenly sliding back down across the sheets, dropping, falling— “Let go of me!”  
  
Like a broken record, over and over. _Let go. You have to let it go._  
  
Erik’s grip on his ankle wasn’t detectable by sensation, and where the hell does he get off, thinking he can grab like that, take advantage of an injury? “Get off!” Lashing out, he catches Erik sideways across the jaw, but Erik is quicker, and more prepared, and he rolls with the blow. As much of an ass as he is, he might be used to people trying to chin him on a regular basis.  
  
Bloody hell, though, this place is maddening enough, but here Erik has to go and—  
  
“I won’t let you lie in bed all day,” Erik snaps—and does he think it means anything, that he’s at least careful with his manhandling? Catching one’s victim before he hits the floor means nothing at all when Erik is the one who caused the fall in the first place.  
  
“No. I’ll—I’ll _stop_ you—“  
  
But Erik’s grip tightens, snaking around his waist and towing him sideways, propping him back up against the bed and nudging the food toward him. “You’re in no position to—“  
  
“I’m a _telepath_ ,” he snarls, and when did he slip, when did his mind—? Oh, but no, that is _Erik’s_ mind. That is Erik, freezing— _[Stop moving]—_ and releasing his grip— _[Let go]—_ though fat lot of good that does when someone might as well have tied a block of cement to Charles, for all the help his legs offer him.  
  
Doesn’t matter, though: there’s no time to move, not when Erik lashes out at the compulsions. Someone must have trained him since Westchester. He hits hard, clawing against the mental holds and raging on the astral plane. It’s nothing. At full strength—if not for the years of disuse, courtesy of the serum—there would be very little effort required to shut him down.  
  
One thought, and Erik Lehnsherr could be inside out.  
  
He could be anyone.  
  
He could be _dead_.  
  
Instead, Erik is scrambling across the width of the cell, stumbling, hand groping out for the wall while he sucks in breath. Just like—it wasn’t supposed to be like _this_. But the glance Erik throws over his shoulder is one of pure _betrayal_. And it was never supposed to be _that_.  
  
“Erik.” But what else is there to say? And Erik isn’t listening: he rounds the corner of the washroom, and he’s gone, hidden. There’s no door, but—“Erik?”—he doesn’t answer, and there’s no point in lying: Erik might be justified. Only—what’s a little telepathic control between friends, when they’ve already exchanged bullets? They can’t get much more intimate than _that_.  
  
 _[You can’t drag me around and expect that I won’t react.]_  
  
Erik’s mind blanches. _[Get out of my head.]_ The words burn, bursting out into his mind in a fiery pop.  
  
 _[What’s the difference? You physically drag me around, because I’m too weak to stop you: why is it different when I do the same with your mind?]_  
  
 _[GET OUT.]_  
  
Like being slapped. Erik can’t keep him out, but he bristles so very effectively, and chasing Erik physically is out of the question. Years ago, he’d have followed after Erik and tried to talk things out, kept his mind to himself. Cuba, though—and Erik wins every physical fight, working legs or not.  
  
Erik wins _everything_.  
  
They fight, and Erik even wins with his absence. Because the room? It feels whiter without him.  
  
It’s primed to swallow everything up.


	18. Day 2, August 23, 1970, 21:26

**[Day 2, August 23, 1970, 21:26]**  
  
Charles hasn’t moved. That much is obvious from the complete, muffled silence in the room beyond. He got what he wanted, then: to be left alone, to be allowed to lie listlessly in bed with no regard for anything but what is consuming him from the inside out.  
  
Whatever that is. Charles isn’t telling, and there are bigger things in this world, bigger even than Charles, than Charles’ former endless optimism and good will, and his desire to fight against any perceived wrong. Whatever sucked that out of him has left him as dead as his legs, shiftless and content to waste away while the world keeps turning outside this living Hell.  
  
But damn it all if that hadn’t been the least scary aspect of it: Charles’ drained enthusiasm is terrifying in its own way, but it’s nothing like having his mind invaded by a Charles so _changed._ Charles as he was could be trusted, but if Charles as he is now is willing to poke and prod, to lash out in his hurt and deterioration, will the clock finally tick down to the second when he loses his mind completely and drags every living thought down with him?  
  
No. _No._  
  
But if that were so easy to guarantee, there would be no reason to remain here, pressed up against cool tile as the lights go out. There’s a noise from the room beyond, and after the events of the day, it’s stupid how arresting that slight indication of motion proves to be: he’s already perking his ears up, listening to whatever Charles might be about to do.  
  
Nothing. He does nothing. Only shifts, and—there’s a snatch of a sigh, but Charles doesn’t do more than that. Not immediately.  
  
He’ll need to. He needs to use the bathroom at some point, and it’s cruel to leave him there—  
  
Cruel. Like crashing into someone’s thoughts and fine motor control and moving his limbs. Charles is welcome to his thoughts—not _always_ welcome, but it’s who Charles _is_ , and that’s enough—but controlling others is a choice, not a need. Charles _needs_ to listen sometimes, more so down here, now; he doesn’t need to _control_.  
  
Does he? Control.  
  
Yes, control.  
  
What a fleeting thing it must be for Charles these days.  
  
To hell with it: leaving off the psychological philosophy, the fact remains that Charles can’t take care of himself, and leaving him is out of the question. If he were to abandon Charles and refuse to assist him, would they take him back? Maybe knock them both out with drugs in the food, and he’d wake up to find Charles gone.  
  
As terrifying as that looming threat of silence is, it’s not the worst of it: the worst of it would be losing _Charles._ They’d take him, who knows where, and what if they hurt him? What if they left him alone in his own cell, allowing him to kill himself with his own apathy and utter disregard for himself?  
  
Charles Xavier, destroyed.  
  
Planting his hands down on the tiles, Erik pushes himself up along the wall, wiping his hand over his mouth once he’s regained his feet. Whatever has happened to Charles has rendered him incapable of caring for himself. His physical limitations are a problem, yes, but it’s the damage to his mind that’s demolished his capacity to maintain his own life.  
  
And whose fault is that?  
  
Who did the damage?  
  
Hello, guilt, old friend.  
  
“Charles.”  
  
In the dim light, it’s possible to make out Charles’ silhouette atop the bed. He’s a broken lump under the blanket, and he hardly stirs when called. If he’s stubborn enough, does he think he’ll be left alone? It says quite a lot about what his last few years have been like.  
  
No more. If Charles wants to slowly finish the job of killing himself off, then he will have to actively work to be allowed to do so. This isn’t _Charles._ It _is_ , in the sense that the good comes with the bad, and this is the darkest part of Charles, but it isn’t a state in which he should be allowed to languish. Loving Charles—it never meant only the best of him, did it? But it meant trying to push him into _being_ his best, to see what he should have seen, to know that all humans would eventually agree to locking mutants within five white walls. In time, they’d agree to worse. If anyone is at fault—if he’d made Charles _see_ ….  
  
In so many ways, he ought to have protected Charles better. If the payment for that mistake is having his mind ripped apart by Charles himself—a Charles who has slipped to a place where he is capable of that—then so be it.  
  
It would only be justice.  
  
“Come on, then,” he murmurs, pushing himself across the room to Charles’ side. When there’s no immediate response, he slides his arms under Charles’ body and lifts upward, forgoing yesterday’s attempts at salvaging Charles’ dignity. Scooping him up entirely is easier than dragging him, and he takes advantage of the loose tumble of Charles’ limbs to tuck Charles in against his chest and swing around, heading for the bathroom.  
  
By some miracle, Charles doesn’t fight. The height of his response is a wispy sigh… and then silence.  
  
“We can go a day without a shower, I suppose,” he murmurs to Charles. It breaks the routine, but perhaps that’s for the best. “But you’ve been in bed all evening: do you think you can sleep tonight?”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
“No? Did you sleep earlier?”  
  
“My powers—I can’t _sleep._ ”  
  
He sounds so lost and tragic, like a sad, broken little thing, a toy crushed beneath someone’s heel. “What?” He lowers Charles downward easily. One arm across the chest is sufficient support while Charles unfastens his trousers and gets on with relieving his bladder. Thank god the paralysis didn’t steal control over those functions. If Charles had needed to use a catheter—would they have given him some? Probably. They’re almost sadistically fastidious here, careful to maintain health and the basic necessities, lest the prisoner die before the solitude leads to proper insanity.  
  
“I—the serum, I didn’t hear the voices, but I can _hear_ now.”  
  
“I thought you could only hear _me.”_  
  
Charles shivers and, having finished, puts himself back to sorts, closing up his trousers with a careless disinterest. He’s quiet again when he’s moved to the sink, where an arm around his chest once again is enough to hold him steady while he washes his face. “I’ve been blocking you,” Charles murmurs down into the water as he splashes it over his face. “But when I sleep, my shields—they didn’t used to drop, but they do now, and I’ll _hear_ —“  
  
“I don’t mind.” It’s nothing short of the truth. “I don’t mind you in my head. But don’t control me.”  
  
“I don’t _want_ to hear.”  
  
That hurts more than it should.  
  
“I’ll try to only think on agreeable things.”  
  
That wasn’t meant to be a shocking statement, but Charles jerks his head back up away from the sink. The water is running in rivulets down his face, and he has to blink rapidly to clear it out of his eyes, as he seems disinclined to wipe it away with his hands. It’s as though Charles is hardly feeling _anything_ anymore, even something as simple as soaked skin and water in his eyes.  
  
“It’s having to touch your _mind_ ,” Charles says finally, darting his eyes to the wall and back, scanning over Erik’s face before flickering off to do another run over the confines of the room. “I—it’s—I can’t explain it. But your mind—I feel your _mind_ , and—your mind, it’s always been very… _unique._ I know your mind. I know how it _feels_ , and I don’t want to feel it again. You don’t understand. It hurts to feel it—it—“ He stops, licking at the edges of his lips, and once again setting his gaze off to flutter nervously around the room, jittery to the point of unease.  
  
“My mind hurts you?” It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Every other part of him has been crafted into a weapon—why not his mind? But Charles _liked_ his mind once upon a time, often spent minutes babbling about it in the afterglow, and for that to have changed—  
  
“It _hasn’t_ changed. You don’t—you don’t understand.”  
  
And whose fault is that? “Then _tell_ me.” And, in the meantime, wipe that water away, damn it. It’s too much like tears. But Charles isn’t going to do it, and, fine, if that’s how he wants to be—  
  
Charles holds perfectly still when the towel scrubs over his face. They’re thin towels, nothing like the fluffy luxury of the Westchester manor, but everything is standard issue here. Doesn’t matter much. This is extravagance compared to the camps.  
  
Though, in the camps, there was no one to care for, to look after. Attachments in the camps got you killed, and while Schmidt very determinedly kept him alive, working as his assistant had been the price of that. All those experiments….  
  
A sharp whine catches his attention. “Please, no....”  
  
Charles.  
  
“Sorry!” Of all the things Charles doesn’t need to see—a little self-control shouldn’t be so far beyond reach, if it means keeping those horrors out of Charles’ mind.   
  
Once he’s struggled to pull his breathing back under control, he gives Charles’ waist a light squeeze and curls his free arm around next to the first, more easily taking Charles’ weight. There’s so little of him to take. The rations here are carefully kept to a precise diet—never more than necessary—but Charles clearly needs more than they’ll give him, if only to gain a little of that weight back. For the next week or so, Charles should have half of Erik’s meals.  
  
“Are you done?” he asks Charles.  
  
A slight nod.  
  
Good enough: it’s permission to heft Charles back up into his arms and to carry him out into the room, depositing him down on the far side of the mattress. It isn’t much, but that side is a fraction further from the door: in the event of an entrance, that could make all the difference.  
  
“It isn’t your thoughts.”  
  
What? Still? Are they still on about this? “Yes, I know. It’s my _mind_.” And Charles will simply have to live with the bitterness that saturates that answer.  
  
“ _Yes_. It _hurts_.”  
  
There’s a significant risk in actually meeting Charles’ gaze, but the surprise of Charles deigning to offer eye contact is sufficiently surprising to imbue the moment with a false sense of security. That’s a lie. It’s _always_ a lie. Those wide blue eyes that gleam in the dark, and that look far, far too much like the gaze of a kicked puppy. Damn it, that wasn’t meant to be the case. Charles was never supposed to be hurt in the first place, and there is no _need_ for yet _another_ round of flagellation—but under that stare, it’s impossible not to feel the weight of sin.  
  
All that guilt, and the best he can do to combat it is to climb into bed next to the man who is causing it and hope to god that he can find a way to sleep through until morning. “There’s nothing I can do about it, Charles.”  
  
“Your mind was the most extraordinary that I had ever encountered.”  
  
Surely the clenching in his chest has nothing to do with that statement. Ha. Laughable. Oh, to be able to lie to himself. “What?” Cautiously—this will no doubt come crashing down, because it always does where Charles is concerned—he turns over to face Charles.  
  
Charles is turned on his side, legs discarded uselessly in a sprawl while his upper body angles toward Erik. One hand is tucked under the pillow, but the other reaches tentatively out into the peace between them. Charles probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it, as consumed as he is in his slightly disconcerting level of staring. But that _is_ very like him: when Charles latches onto something, he hardly ever disengages before he’s ready to do so of his own free will. He’ll beat this topic to death—and Erik along with it—until he feels he’s said what he has to say.  
  
Wanting to hear him is perhaps the most dangerous thing of all.  
  
“Do you really think I want to reaccustom myself to intimacy with your mind?” Charles breathes out finally—and now, _now_ he looks away, down toward his hand where it’s crept into the space between them, and, as if just realizing that he’s been reaching out, he darts back, tucking his hand close to his chest.  
  
In manner as well as body, then—very clever, Charles, very coy. But… not precisely intentional. And more than a little terrified.  
  
That’s—it shouldn’t—  
  
Damn it all.  
  
Lazy mornings were few and far between, but there had been a few of them, just a few snatches of hours, when he and Charles had wrangled out the luxury of sleeping in. After the morning sex that was—it was nice to think of it as inevitable, whether or not it actually was. But _after_ that, he and Charles had laid tangled up in bed, Charles usually half sprawled over Erik’s chest, lazily drawing patterns into any skin he could reach, and happily humming to himself as he’d thumbed his way through Erik’s thoughts, casual as you please, and fantastically _close_. There had never been a greater intimacy than that.  
  
He’d never thought, never even _considered,_ what it must have done to Charles to lose access to a mind with which he’d become so familiar.  
  
“It didn’t used to be hard to block people out,” Charles mutters miserably from next to him. “Raven didn’t like me in her head, and I could always manage to keep out of her thoughts. I’m so out of practice. But I—I don’t want to _hear_ you.”  
  
He doesn’t want to hear, because he doesn’t want to be blocked out again.  
  
Simple.  
  
Cruel, but simple. No one wants to be exposed to something wonderful when they’re staring the loss of that thing in the face.  
  
“It’s hurting you to try to block me out.”  
  
Silence. That’s as good as a ‘yes.’ From Charles, it might be better: verbal assents usually are accompanied by long, winding explanations when Charles has his way.  
  
“Come here.”  
  
It’s not as though Charles can say ‘no.’ At first, he even appears to forget to struggle, staring at Erik as though he’s been slapped and is utterly incapable of understanding what Erik could possibly be thinking. Even once he’s being tugged across the gap in the sheets until their bodies are flush against each other, with Erik sitting against the wall and propping Charles up in his lap—Charles still doesn’t understand. Whatever he thinks is happening, he’s opposed to it on the principle alone—as he is to just about anything that Erik comes up with—and begins to wiggle—and isn’t that _strange_ , when his lower body is dead still. There’s a bit of a movement in his hips, but it’s truncated, and there’s nothing at all from his legs, which are easily situated to rest along the inside of each of Erik’s thighs.  
  
Charles smacks at his hands. “What are you—what—?”  
  
“Hush. We’re likely to be here a very long time. You—“  
  
“No, Hank will be along soon—“  
  
 _That_ again? It’s going to be awful when Charles finally realizes that Hank isn’t coming. How long will it take? Days? Weeks? The realization will be…  
  
Pretty damn catastrophic, that’s what it will be, but now isn’t the moment to address that. For now, there’s just this: him and Charles, with Charles seated in his lap, trying to hit him, though not, thankfully, as ardently as earlier, when he no doubt would have done his best to throw an elbow into wherever it would do the most damage. This new attempt is noticeably weaker, more confused, and the paleness of it leaves a hint of doubt as to whether Charles isn’t fighting both himself and the grip that’s holding him down.  
  
“Whatever you’ve been shooting yourself up with, it’s torn at your ability to shield, I’m guessing. I won’t sit here and watch you hurt.”  
  
“You’ve done that well enough _before_ ,” Charles snarls, wild and vicious: if he had hackles, they’d be raised.  
  
No better than being whipped, hearing that. “Stop it. Let yourself touch my mind.”  
  
But Charles won’t. He keeps fidgeting, and—fine, if that means sitting here and holding Charles all night until the breaking point when Charles will finally reach out, then that’s what will happen. But there’s probably something to be said for not being maimed while waiting. To that end: he snakes his arms up under Charles’ shoulders, hooking around and placing his hands on either side of Charles’ head, holding him steady. Like this, Charles’ shoulders are immobilized to the point where he can’t get the leverage to deal any further blows.  
  
Not that Charles accepts that right away.  
  
By the time he finally finishes thrashing, he’s out of breath and very obviously ruffled, and when he does slip into quietude, even his harsh pants sound resentful.  
  
“There,” he murmurs into Charles’ hair. He’s long since begun to rest his cheek against the back of Charles’ head as he waits for the anger to burn itself out, but as they drift into silence the motion becomes softer, more pleasant. Though Charles’ hair smells of the shampoo that’s always supplied in this hellhole, somehow smelling it on _Charles_ diffuses the taint of captivity that the smell evokes and instead settles it back into its original scent of fruit and citrus.  
  
He’ll be waiting a long, long time for Charles’ anger to properly burn out, but, for now, it’ll be enough if Charles can burn through the burst of energy that’s given him the ability to actively thrash.  
  
“I only ever blocked you from my mind _once_ ,” he says once Charles has stilled. “You didn’t understand, and I knew you’d try to stop me from turning back those missiles. But it wasn’t meant to be a permanent exile. I love you. I want you in my mind, and in my life, and I won’t let you drive yourself mad by trying to isolate that which makes you _you._ So, I’m telling you: touch my mind _.”_  
  
“You don’t love me—“  
  
For fuck’s sake. This is ridiculous. “Hush. You’re already listening in on my thoughts. Go that extra step deeper and listen to _me_.”  
  
“It’s been _years_ —“  
  
In some ways, it’s understandable: having that connection snatched away the first time must have been awful. Not considering what that would do to Charles—stupid, so stupid, unforgivably so, and it will be another bullet point on a long list of wrongs. Charles has spent years marinating in his resentment and in the belief that, if there had been another chance, that mental connection would have been snatched away a second time. His refusal to reach out now and really bury _in_ —not just surface thoughts—is, in some sense, probably akin to a refusal to have sex with a past significant other.  
  
But that’s _flawed_. This—Charles needn’t fear being cut off again. If this is—if he is Charles’ _past significant other_ —how very adolescent—then Charles must understand that this is an invitation to give things another try.  
  
And this time, there will be no leaving. Not only is it impossible, but…  
  
He won’t leave Charles again. Prison or no prison, it was a mistake to walk away, to believe that was what Charles truly wanted.  
  
“I won’t ever block you out again,” he murmurs to Charles, resting his cheek against Charles’ hair and staring over toward the wall. Blinking slowly hardly changes the view at all, but it does feel less frenetic, and that’s soothing in the face of Charles’ panic. “You have my word.”  
  
A pause. And then: “Why should I believe you?” He sounds skeptical—but that means he’s considering. Good.  
  
“Because I’ve never lied to you. I was always honest with you about my intentions. At least do me the courtesy of admitting the truth in _that_.”  
  
Oh, but that’s too much for Charles: he can’t give up that one tiny clutch of venom—and if it’s that important, than he may keep it, so long as he acknowledges the truth to _himself._  
  
“Erik…” Just that one words sounds clearer than anything else Charles has said since he’s arrived here. There’s none of the fog and confusion that’s clung stubbornly to his other words. In this, Charles is as perfect and as still as his body is currently: it’s a remarkable clarity of being.  
  
“I’ll never block you out again,” he repeats, softer this time.  
  
And… _there_.  
  
There will never be any chance of him mistaking Charles’ mental presence. It slides inside of his skull and expands, molding to the insides of his head and seeking out every nook and cranny of his brain, infusing itself there so completely that there’s no space to spare. Charles’ presence seeks out all the empty spots and fills him up, completing him through the space where he’d been lacking.  
  
Through the haze of—it feels like relief, mostly… but through that haze, there’s the sound of a soft, relieved whimper, and then Charles relaxes, shuddering.  
  
It’s been _years_ without this—without Charles. All this time.  
  
“I won’t leave you again,” he murmurs against Charles’ temple, brushing his lips over the tissue-paper thin skin: it’s almost possible to taste the pulse of Charles’ blood against his tongue. “Don’t leave _me_.”  
  
Charles nudges against him, bumping his forehead into Erik’s chin. “I never _did_.”  
  
That’s true. So, so true. But Charles never came after him either. All these years down in this pit, and Charles let him rot in retribution for a crime he didn’t commit.  
  
“I couldn’t have—I… I couldn’t have helped. My powers, and…”  
  
He hushes Charles and stretches out, sliding them both down the bed until they’re curled full-length, tucked together, back to front. All that warmth and heat, and the awareness of something beyond himself… this is _touch_. It’s more than himself, and a reminder that he hasn’t disappeared into his own mind. “It doesn’t matter now.” Not with Charles held this close, and their minds melded together like they used to be, back during those mornings in Westchester. This cell is a far cry from those days, but at least—at least—  
  
He tucks his nose against Charles’ nape. “I can feel your mind.”  
  
Yes, and it’s the most glorious thing. The best thing, and he’s feeling it here, in Hell on earth.


	19. Day 3, August 24, 1970, 9:23

**[Day 3, August 24, 1970, 9:23]**  
  
Seven years since he’s last been in Erik’s head. Seven years, and after just a few hours of sifting through the filing of Erik’s mind—it’s so astoundingly _precise_ —it’s as though he never left. Most people’s minds are messy and somewhat incoherent, but Erik has a level of self-discipline that is at once both terrifying and thrilling. For a man who has always loved libraries and books, Erik’s mind is the culmination of those inclinations: a library of thoughts, well ordered and expansive, and _alive_. A telepath could spend days rifling around here, skimming through memory after memory as easily as one would turn the pages in a book. Easier, even—quicker.  
  
But, for all the overwhelming enjoyment that a jaunt through Erik’s mind has always brought, there is no mistaking the fact that Erik’s mind is not unchanged from how it was seven years ago.  
  
There have always been agonies in Erik’s mind. There’s a pain that clings to so many of his thoughts, but, though Erik prefers not to realize it himself, it’s possible to avoid that. Pain doesn’t drench his entire mind, despite clinging to several of his most formative memories. Now, though, there’s something else: a sort of static that mutes the vibrancy, most of all over the parts of Erik’s mind that are related to his senses. Touch is smothered in the static, and sight, taste, and smell are dulled, though his hearing is perfectly clear.  
  
Realizing why is… unpleasant.  
  
Erik sees the same walls day in and day out, eats a rotating menu of food with little variety, and has his sense of smell varied only as relates to the food. Worse, he’s giving new meaning to touch-starved, though he doesn’t seem to know it. It would explain how keen Erik has been to touch him, though, clinging to him in sleep and taking every opportunity to physically move him about. Hearing too is easily explainable: Erik is finely attuned to any noise around him, as it is quite likely the first thing that signals to him the approach of one of his captors. He may never see them if the stay well away from the glass panes, but if he strains his hearing, he might receive notice of their presence anyway.  
  
It’s _barbaric_ , what they’ve done to Erik.  
  
No one deserves this, no matter what he’s done.  
  
“Charles.”  
  
A hand on his face. He startles, turning. “Hmm?” Caught staring at the wall again: it’s so easy to get lost in the white on white on white, except for that one red slash across the wall, where he scraped his hands. That streak is terribly distracting. It draws the eye, and—  
  
 _“Charles.”_  
  
Oh. This time, he really does turn fully, giving Erik his full attention. Ah, right: breakfast. Because Erik has gained a fixated interest in seeing him eat.  
  
 _[—Too thin.]_  
  
Residing in Erik’s mind is not the same as listening to his thoughts. It’s more of a sense of his awareness, of vague impressions, and almost always feelings—but thoughts _do_ sneak through, as that last one did, though it doesn’t feel the same as when he’s on the outside of someone’s brain looking in. It’s so much easier to control the flow of thought into his perceptions when he’s properly inside the mind. The mind hemorrhages thoughts out into the open air, bouncing easily off those who aren’t telepaths, but for him—they _beat_ at him with painful intensity. Inside someone’s mind—that’s much more pleasant. There he’s tucked away and the thoughts nestle around him without assaulting him, and it’s more a hazy mix of mental perception that permeates him rather than attacking him with pointed, well-formed ideas. That doesn’t hold quite so true when the other person is thinking something strongly—thoughts sharpen when that happens—but it’s still easier this way. Nicer.  
  
“I lost weight after the injury,” he admits, giving into Erik’s pointed look and spooning a lump of porridge into his mouth. Goodness, that’s dreadful. No seasoning, overdone, and how can these people call themselves cooks?  
  
“Which was seven years ago.”  
  
Yes. And Erik has no right to pass judgment about that, considering the injury was _his_ doing. “I never gained it back.”  
  
“Obviously n—“  
  
Erik stills. Slowly, with aching slowness, he cranks his gaze upward, keeping his neck itself perfectly still. _[Put down your food]_ he thinks, and his mental tone—it’s off, hardened, already bitter and resigned.  
  
“What—?” But he does it, and he’s also about to turn to follow Erik’s line of sight, except—  
  
 _[Don’t move.]_  
  
It’s a testament to Erik’s mental organization that he’s so beautifully capable of projecting his mental voice this way. Most people require a telepath to reach out to _them_ , but Erik delivers his thoughts up, practically gift-wrapped for telepathic consumption, when he so desires.   
  
_[I’m going to fall asleep soon]_ Erik tells him, hardly blinking. But, despite the equivalent of a mental grimace, he takes another bite of his food.  
  
 _[What?]_ The porridge is horrid, but it doesn’t look poisoned, and surely Erik wouldn’t continue eating it if it were.  
  
 _[There are a few men standing back by the wall. You can’t sense them; they’re wearing helmets. They’re—I don’t often see them, but every few weeks they’ll come and sanitize the cell. They always drug the food when they do.]_  
  
That explains why Erik ordered him to stop eating—but not why _Erik_ is still eating.  
  
 _[Then why—?]_  
  
Erik grimaces and takes another bite. _[They’re supposed to stay out of sight until I’m unconscious. One of them—probably a new hire—made a mistake just now and came too close to the glass. Normally, I never know when they’ll come.]_  
  
 _[But you’re still eating the food….]_  
  
It takes every ounce of willpower not to upend the bowl of porridge in front of Erik. It’s almost gone now, though, and what is Erik thinking, that will drug him, could hurt him, will knock him out, and they’ll both be unconscious—  
  
Except they won’t. Only Erik will be. Erik is going to leave him. He’s going to leave him alone to deal with whoever these men are.  
  
Erik was always going to leave. Of course he was. Everyone does. And this is Erik, who always leaves at the worst moment. Stupid. _So_ stupid to trust otherwise, to think—  
  
 _[Charles. Stop it. I need you to listen to me.]_  
  
Listen? To what? More broken promises? Erik has made enough of those to last a lifetime. So, thank you, no, whatever Erik has to say, he can say it to himself, and—  
  
 _[This is an opportunity, Charles.]_  
  
Yes, for Erik to do exactly what he did before. The beach had hurt so much, and there had been the smell of sulfur, the sun white hot in his eyes….  
  
Hands latch onto either side of his face, filling up his line of vision with Erik. That touch, those hands…  
  
Erik isn’t gone. Erik is _here_.  
  
Sucking down a deep breath, he pokes tentatively at Erik’s mind. _[An opportunity…?]_  
  
Almost imperceptibly, Erik relaxes. He’d probably recognized how close they were to the termination of the conversation. That’s reason enough for his tension, though it doesn’t matter much now that they’ve sorted the momentary confusion. _[They know you can’t run. They may simply choose to enter regardless of the fact that you’re still awake. Observe every detail you can. Can you do that?]_  
  
Already, Erik’s thoughts are beginning to fray at the edges. Sedation as it concerns telepaths is a tricky thing, but the most disconcerting view of all may be watching unconsciousness steal over someone else. Worse, when the mind is normally as precise as Erik’s mind is. The sedation throws a blanket over all that beautiful organization.  
  
He nods into Erik’s hands.  
  
 _[Good. I… need to lie down.]_ A wave of dizziness. _[Watch_ everything. _]_  
  
“Erik?!” It’s a good show for anyone observing, to hear his worry out loud. Would that it were feigned, but seeing Erik droop, half collapsing onto the side of the bed is alarming. What if Erik died? Would he be left here with Erik’s corpse? All alone with a corpse?  
  
Don’t think about that. Erik is right: if they can, they need to learn from these men.  
  
 _[Why did you finish eating if you knew you were being drugged?]_  
  
Erik’s thoughts are pea soup by this point, worse than a damp morning in Oxford before the sun could rise and burn off the mist. Despite the lethargy stealing over him, though, he’s tugged himself up onto the bed, giving every appearance of indulgence when Charles drags himself after to lean against the bed and latch onto Erik’s upper arm, shaking him as forcefully as possible.   
  
“S’fine, Charles. I’ll wake—just a few hours.” But, inwardly: _[It’s easier… hmm, if they think I haven’t learned… signs. It’s an… advantage. And… can’t very well stop eating. Too weak to walk? Can’t escape. Drugs only happen once in a while. Not worth starving.]_  
  
It wouldn’t be. Not to Erik, who has known hunger before.  
  
 _[Just… watch]_ Erik pushes toward his mind. The thought is dulled, covered over with the fog of impending unconsciousness: his thoughts are unraveling along with his body, muscles unfurling and strewing his limbs haphazardly across the bed. Erik has never in his life looked so uncontrolled: even in natural sleep, he retains a degree of self-awareness.  
  
“Erik.” Talking to the wall would be equally as effective: Erik’s mental presence slips under, muting all surface thought. His mind continues working at a deeper level, but his usual conscious thoughts have been silenced. “ _Erik_.”  
  
Nothing.  
  
Whoever it is that oversees their days, he or she must be watching. Someone is _always_ watching. Several someones, most likely. But they’ll know, and they’ll see Erik’s breathing even out, and they’ll realize that only one of their prisoners consumed a sedative—and it won’t matter, because Erik was the obvious source of danger.  
  
Practically speaking, there’s no greater danger than someone who can sneak inside the minds of others, but that’s a moot point, when the rooms around them are lined with that damned reflective material. Buried alive with his own thoughts. And it must be the outer rooms that are lined, because when the door slides open, there isn’t any flicker of thought. Nothing at all. There’s silence, though three people move into the room. They may as well be the walking dead for all the true life that he can sense from them. There are no thoughts: no evidence that they’re anything other than facsimiles of human life. They certainly lack the compassion that an optimist would generally ascribe to the human condition.  
  
Dressed in baby blue protective suits, they file into the room, apparently unworried when the door slides shut behind them. All communication between them is short and professional, but there’s an ease to their association: they must be colleagues who are familiar with each other. They do look about the same age, though it’s difficult to tell, with their bodies swathed in protective coatings, and their heads wrapped into metal. If not for their bare faces, they’d be almost completely nondescript.  
  
They all give him quick, perfunctory once-overs, but upon being satisfied with his inability to move, they ignore his sharp grunt when he tries to shift into a more alert position. “Who are your superiors?” They don’t respond. They haven’t even looked at Erik.  
  
Erik.  
  
A quick glance confirms that Erik remains sprawled on the bed, unmoving. Information, he’d said. Erik is never awake when they come. _Does_ that make this an opportunity?  
  
It mostly feels like further torture.  
  
One of them—a burly man with hair the color of straw peeking out from under his helmet—finally spares him a look, but it’s out of the corner of his eye, and it screams of exactly how much the man doesn’t truly want to _see_. That’s probably better than a sadist who enjoys tormenting prisoners, though not by much: a sadist might be goaded into giving up information. This man—by the look of him, he has no investment in this cause. Just a job, probably, where he files monotonously into work each day, following orders mechanically until he’s sent home.  
  
Planting his elbows on the bed behind him, Charles shoves upward a few inches until he’s perched on the edge of the mattress. It isn’t much, but it offers a bit of extra height, positioning him closer to eyelevel. “I am an American citizen who has not received a trial. This is completely illegal. I want to know the charges against me.”  
  
This time, one of the men turns fully to look at him. There’s no leniency there: his expression is mostly blankness, with a small component of confusion and curiosity. Though, his eyes harden when they stray toward Erik, and he jerks more roughly than necessary on the spray mechanism on the bottle of disinfectant in his hand, spewing the liquid out over the red stain on the wall with a greater enthusiasm than the situation warrants.  
  
“Damn it, do _not_ pretend that you don’t hear me.”  
  
But they do. They move about the cell with sharp, practiced movements, spraying down surfaces and scrubbing at the stain on the wall. Except—one of the men digs out a swab and runs it along the bloodstain. This is—it’s—  
  
They’re treating him and Erik like they’d treat animals under observation. It’s simple scientific procedure. Erik may be a prisoner, but all this time he’s been monitored and studied, as though some rabid beast, rather than a man, killed their president.  
  
 _What an adorable lab rat you make, Charles._  
  
His stomach flips over, pinching in tight and spasming. Don’t vomit. Don’t—Erik is right: he can’t afford to keep losing weight. But if ever there were a reason to vomit….  
  
This is sick. It’s disgusting and wrong. He and Erik are _human_.  
  
Broken, but human: in all the hours spent in bed, hating what the accident had reduced him to, he never felt inhuman. There was always humanity, and a lump of dead muscle and bone didn’t change that. It shouldn’t change it now. If he can move, get to the door, they will be forced to acknowledge him. That will be too great a display of sentience for them to overlook.  
  
 _I’ve been a lab rat: I know one when I see one._  
  
It had been said so casually, though ultimately without levity: Erik doesn’t understand how to make light of his past without staring at it too closely and searing his own present with the bitter illumination. Yet, for all that, Erik would know what to do if he were in this position. He’s faced down his own oppressors on numerous occasions.  
  
 _My parents didn’t have names._  
  
Erik had looked those men in the eye when he’d killed them. That’s something, at least. Not good, but Erik did always know how to put himself in the way of an exit. He isn’t someone to be avoided.  
  
Not like a crippled ex-professor who checked out of the world prematurely.  
  
Too late now. But not, perhaps, too late to try demand answers. Hank will come, and when he does, knowing who these people are, what they were after—it will be invaluable. If he can get to the door, if—there, like that, get his hands down, smear them against the floor for leverage, and then begin to drag himself backward. Terribly undignified, but they’re not paying him much attention, and so what does it matter if he looks like a fool?  
  
This is the option with the highest chance of success, yes, but there’s a horrible guilt to leaving Erik unprotected on the bed. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough, just trusting that because they haven’t hurt him previously, they won’t hurt him now.  
  
But… there’s no better option.  
  
One foot after another, dragging slowly. The floor is cold under his palms, and it must be under his legs too, though there’s no means of sensing that any longer. By the time he’s at the door, his hands ache, having been pressed too roughly against the hard material of the floor and shuffled along while his lower half weighs him down.  
  
The pilgrimage has earned him only limited notice. Two of the men have split off to clean the bathroom, but the one who’s at work on the blood stain pauses, sponge hovering over the wall. The stain has smeared into a watery red, and a few rivulets of contaminated water have tracked down the plaster: the man notices that too and dips down to catch it, wiping it away, though he flicks his eyes up every few seconds to watch the approach of what he must categorize as a dangerous enemy.  
  
Pity that fear of danger isn’t sufficient to prompt him to offer the answers demanded of him.  
  
“This is illegal, and unethical, and I have done nothing to deserve this!”  
  
Not a very promising start in terms of why _Erik_ ought not to be locked up, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Anyway, crimes or not, Erik shouldn’t be here either. Solitary confinement is nothing short of torture. They’ve trapped him here for years on end with only his own mind for company. It’s a miracle he isn’t insane. Loneliness is awful like that, like a bottle of scotch at three in the morning and a memory of when it was shared over chess.  
  
A drink would be lovely right about now.  
  
The man keeps on scrubbing. Once the stain has been cleared away he straightens up and follows his colleagues off toward the bathroom, heedless of the shouts from behind him. He must have perceived that there’s no immediate danger, or else he’s very stupid, turning his back on his opponent.  
  
Not that a crippled man can probably be considered much of an opponent.  
  
It’s disgusting, how useless he is like this: dead limbs and cut off from every mind but Erik’s—and was that a kindness, leaving him to read Erik’s mind? Or had they been hoping he’d tear Erik apart? Whatever they were hoping for, it doesn’t change his general level of uselessness. Laughable, to think that this is the height of rebellion: pressed up against a door, acting as a human blockade, dead weight and all, and demanding answers in exchange for passage.  
  
As it turns out, even that is beyond the realm of possibility.  
  
When the men finally emerge from the bathroom, they pause collectively at the threshold of the main room, staring down at him. The one in the lead looks back at the other two, and one of them nods solemnly, but, as has been the case for the duration of their visit, no words pass between them. They aren’t needed: the men move forward together with a unity of purpose, totally independent from any reasoning.  
  
“I want to know why I’m here!” he seethes at them. Even the basest criminal has that right. This America, damn it, and not a third world nation where force equates with law.  
  
Wrong. Force is law, force is—force is the lead man reaching down and grabbing, pulling him to the side away from the door. Fuck, Erik must gloat at this—at how right he was. No—not right. This isn’t all of humanity—isn’t—  
  
“Damn it, I want to speak to your superiors!”  
  
They’re probably already listening. They’re certainly _watching_ : the door slides back with a sick grinding noise—please, don’t think about how it’s from disuse—as soon as the men have cleared the way. Just move the bodies aside, stack them up, toss them in a pit—  
  
Erik would know, Erik would understand. It wasn’t fair. It’s almost explicable, why Erik has marinated in his bitterness and pain all these years. Takes one to know one, doesn’t it? Wallowing in bitterness and pain. Those things do seem to spread around awfully easily….  
  
With a wordless cry of frustration, he pitches himself to the side, sinking fingers into the leg of the third man as he tries to file past and out the door. An overdevelopment of upper body muscles would have been useful in this particular situation, but that’s the trouble with Hank’s serum: working legs mean starting from scratch when there’s no serum available. A small stature isn’t especially helpful either, but small doesn’t equate to weak, and a good, firm yank, followed by a twist, whips the man off his feet, sprawling him out against the wall. Exactly, just like that. Don’t fucking walk out like this is fine, like the people left behind aren’t _human_.  
  
The man swears viciously—the first word spoken—as there’s a sick crunch of twisting knee, followed by a wet pop: flinging oneself forward on a falling man will do that. And _that_ appears to be a dislocated knee, possibly accompanied by broken bone. Hard to tell when there’s the hazmat suit on, but the garbled gasp of pain and the bloodless pallor of the man’s skin would indicate that’s a good guess.  
  
“I want to know—“  
  
 _Smack_  
  
Oh—that’s—Erik would fight back—would—  
  
No.  
  
The door—  
  
Hurts, though, a fist to the face, and then a solid kick in the shoulder, and another to the ribs. The floor is no warm welcome, rushing up to meet his back. But the door is closing, sucking even the man’s panted, labored breathing away into silence. No answer to any of his questions, and he will again be stuck in the horrible, damnable silence.  
  
“Answer me!” he screams, just once at first, but in spite of burning lungs, again and again and again. “ANSWER ME!”  
  
No one answers.


	20. Day 3, August 24, 1970, 10:35

**[Day 3, August 24, 1970, 10:35]**  
  
Someone is breathing nearby.  
  
Is this finally the point of insanity, then? All these years, and he’s finally created a fellow sufferer out of the dark spaces in his mind. It wouldn’t be the first hallucination that’s occurred, but it’s different when it happens in the waking hours, when it’s easier to rationalize that it’s only the silence reflecting back and twisting itself inside out into a deception of noise.  
  
This is the same. Hallucinations born out of silence come because he’s straining too hard to hear _anything_. They don’t come on the edge of sleep, in the form of an unsought gentle series of breaths, rising and falling a few feet away.  
  
Insanity, then. It was bound to happen eventually.  
  
Or….  
  
Charles.  
  
Granted, Charles has been the subject of plenty of hallucinations prior to this, but he was never quite so solid, and there was never a fully formed explanation for his presence floating about in the haze of dissipating drugged consciousness. Charles is _here_. Unjustly, furiously, and in a mental state that never would have seemed possible before this, but he’s _here._  
  
Feeling pleased is unaccountably selfish, but there’s no sense dwelling on that. It is what it is.  
  
“Charles?” It comes out slurred and heavy with the drugs, but it serves its purpose: Charles blinks at him with slow, measured movements of his lashes, though he doesn’t answer.  
  
He needn’t bother: his face answers well enough all on its own.  
  
There’s a dark bruise stretched along the edge of his cheekbone, and one of the edges of his lip is split. So much for watching and learning. And, being Charles, he apparently never stopped to think that his physical condition is not well-suited to a scuffle.  
  
It takes a moment, but blue eyes slowly peel open, blinking away sleep and bits of crust that have formed at the corners. Had Charles been crying before he’d fallen asleep? That would explain the clumped eyelashes and the redness of his eyes. “Hazmat suits. Three men. Telepathy-blocking helmets. Obviously ordered not to speak to me. Willing to use violence if necessary, but not without cause.”  
  
What? Oh. _Oh._ Charles has tried his hand at observation after all. That would be less worrying if not for the fact that he entangled himself in a scuffle while gaining that information.  
  
“They hurt you.” Not a question, not when it’s so obvious. The area around his cheekbone is warm to the touch, and Charles slumps into the contact, allowing his face to be cradled. Good. That’ll make things easier, if he’s decided he’s had his fill of confrontation for today.  
  
 _[I can still hear you, you know.]_  
  
“Then you’ll know I’m concerned.” Turning over more fully, he scoots his hips closer toward Charles, thumbing up from his cheekbone and toward his temple, where there’s no bruise. It’s like coming alive, this business of touching another person’s skin.  
  
 _[You’re touch starved.]_  
  
“And you’re injured. What a pair we make.” No dilation of Charles’ pupils, which is good news: he probably doesn’t have a concussion. “Where else are you hurt?”  
  
There’s a moment when Charles purses his lips, rolling them tightly together, but he relents quickly, releasing the breath he’d been holding and dropping his gaze down toward the sheets. “Ribs. Shoulder. Both are bruised.”  
  
Damn them all to hell. Kicking—it must have been kicking—a paralyzed man? Cowardly. Filthy humans. They _should_ be scared of their betters, but it’s still disgusting, knowing that they’d stoop this low. The best of the best, right? The United States government. Pathetic.  
  
“It was actually provoked: I think I dislocated his knee. Maybe broke something too.”  
  
“Really?” It’s less satisfying, though, when it becomes clear that Charles paid for his efforts: the bruise on his ribs is already coloring, and Charles flinches when his shirt is hiked up, whispering the fabric over his skin.  
  
 _[I tried to block them from going out the door. I didn’t appreciate being ignored and stepped over.]_  
  
Hard to argue with that sentiment. If it hadn’t ended up in a nasty array of coloring on Charles’ side, it might have been commendable. As it is, though, he skims his fingers over Charles’ ribs, checking for soft spots—at least as best he can in the limited time available before Charles flinches away. There are no blatant broken ribs—thankfully, since there’s no guarantee that any sort of medical attention would be offered. “I don’t see anything broken.”  
  
“I already told you that.”  
  
“I’d still like to do a better examination. Never hurts to have someone else check, even if you think you’re fine.”  
  
“Actually, it _does_ hurt.” Said like a petulant child—and Charles looks a little like one too, wrinkling his nose up and scowling when he isn’t immediately released. But he’ll have to try a little harder: angry though Charles might be, he relaxes into the hand that cups his side, shivering against the thumb stroking over the smoothness of his flesh and the hand curving against his ribs.  
  
Of course it can’t last. A minute or two of silence, and Charles is too quick to realize precisely how long he’s allowed himself the luxury of comfort. If it were a matter of what he deserved, he’d be stroked and petted, doted upon endlessly—but Charles will never accept that, least of all now.  
  
 _[Stop thinking about me as though I’m some sort of skittish woodland creature.]_  
  
“Hardly.” It’s been a while, but it feels good to smile, especially when it’s at Charles. And despite dropping the shirt back down, Charles lets him linger, fingertips still claiming space on Charles’ side. “You’re too urban.”  
  
“Urbane, perhaps. Not necessarily urban.”  
  
“Clever.” If he hadn’t been a genetics professor, he’d have done well in a career with words. Something that would have let him twist them and arrange them to his own liking.  
  
 _[I think you’d find that a common trait among graduate students. You don’t make it this far without the ability to write at least passably.]_  
  
This far? To what, the point when the government considers you dangerous enough to confine you under the Pentagon? “I prefer not to make assumptions.”  
  
“If I’d been just a bit better at that, I wouldn’t be here now.”  
  
Is that statement meant to be as vague as it seems? “How do you mean?”  
  
This time, Charles doesn’t answer: his lips part and he tries to breathe, but it catches in his chest and he swallows the air down instead, leaving him half-choked on his own breath. Apparently not satisfied with only that, he turns his face downward into the pillow, looking disturbingly as though he wants to smother himself.  
  
“Charles?” Drugs be damned: he skims his hand down lower, molding it to the curve of Charles’ hip.  
  
Once, in better times, they’d spent lazy mornings in bed, posed similarly to this—so similarly that the reminder hurts. Charles had sprawled in the light, soaking up the beams into his skin and staring through the sunlight with nearly pupil-less eyes. Just a pool of blue, and a kind smile to match.  
  
Charles had liked being petted and caressed, curling into it with an obvious craving for affection and attention. He’d submitted to the majority of attempts to dote, smiling sweetly when fed a bit of toast by hand, or when Erik had watched him and thought, _Mine Mine Perfect._  
  
Charles is still perfect.  
  
Whether or not Charles will allow himself to be owned like that any longer is another matter entirely.  
  
Charles shivers again, sending brittle vibrations down the muscles of his back and disturbing the fabric covering him. “They lied to me. Called me down to consult, and I didn’t think. I—“ His voice clips off abruptly, and he noses more firmly into the pillow, hiding the majority of his face.  
  
The world hasn’t cleared quite yet, but there’s no option to have this conversation five minutes later: it is happening _now_ , and a little drug-fog isn’t going to stop him from sliding over to press directly against Charles’ side. Like coming home, except that Charles never used to shiver at his touch, and he absolutely never wavered between pulling away and leaning in closer. The middle ground is the best he can do: he tenses, holding himself motionless, allowing for closeness but not for trust. Not yet. Two days ago, he’d have been fighting this nearness. Two days from now, maybe they’ll have made similar progress.  
  
Regardless, no matter how long it takes, Charles is worth the wait. And they have the time.  
  
“You should have known better,” he agrees, squeezing lightly at the flesh under his hand. “But, Charles—there are _many_ things about which _I_ should have known better.”  
  
The beach. Staying away for so long. Attending a public parade after recent confrontations with the government.  
  
No vicious commentary about that list? Charles must not be listening in. Though, if he’s not, it usually means he’s stuck in his own mind, obsessing over whatever current worry has captivated his attention. Occasionally, that obsession acts like sand inside an oyster—the irritation turns out a beautiful result—but too often it produces exhaustion, frustration, and worry. It did nearly a decade ago; the result may now very well be worse than it was previously.  
  
In a place like this, a mind can eat a person alive. Touch, though—over eight years without touch, and to have Charles here, warm, solid, real under his hand, and anchoring him more and more the closer they move together—Charles has always been an anchor, but he’s everything now. Eight years, trying to stay sane, forcing a routine, and now there’s Charles to care for, to work alongside.  
  
Miraculously, Charles doesn’t lash out at the close proximity, instead choosing to shuffle over onto his side. The movement catches when he rolls his hips, and he grimaces, turning his face away from the sight of his dead legs. Charles never _did_ understand, unfortunately: with a mind like his, he is far more than his physicality. He’s physically beautiful, yes, but paralysis hasn’t changed that, and even if it had, his mind—his _mind—_  
  
Stunningly, irrationally beautiful.  
  
They’ll fix this. Living years with Charles flinching like this at touch, and cringing at needing to accept help with moving his legs—it’s unthinkable. Those disgusting humans haven’t left him a means of transport—despicable creatures would be content to watch him drag himself about—and the only remaining option is to move Charles manually. All right. It isn’t so horrible. Charles, his to care for, to move, and maybe Charles can’t relax into it yet, but at least he doesn’t fight pressing their bodies loosely together from chest to hip, propping each other up in the bed. Damned drugs aren’t making things easy. Though, it’s Charles who blinks slowly, almost as if _he_ were the one who had been drugged. “You _left_ me.”  
  
And… back to the same thing. _That_ , then, is what’s kicking about in Charles’ mind so tenaciously.  
  
“Yes. And I’ve promised I never will again. I’m trying to _fix_ my mistakes, Charles.”  
  
“Can you fix _this_?” Charles nods down toward his legs where they lay, dead weight, against the sheets.  
  
“No.” It’s nothing less than the truth. But—Charles has every right to hate him, every reason to regard any reminder of Cuba with bitterness. _But_ … if that’s so thoroughly the case, Charles shouldn’t fear that he’ll leave _._  
  
 “Do you _want_ me to leave?”  
  
No. The answer is so clearly no that asking at all is superfluous—or it would be, if not for the value of forcing Charles into admitting the truth to himself.  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, finally tilting his head up from the pillow and exposing one blue eye. “You _can’t_ leave.”  
  
It may not be the wisest course of action, but he can’t help scoffing. “Then why are you worried?”  
  
“Because this won’t last forever.”  
  
Always, always the eternal optimist. Charles may think he’s lost all of himself, but that hope never quite dies.  
  
It’s beautiful.  
  
 _This_ is Charles Xavier. Any other man would have crumpled completely, and Charles himself seems to think that he has, but in the midst of that, he remains himself. Bitterly, reluctantly, and in denial, but still himself deep down at his core.  
  
“No.” The strands of Charles’ hair catch on Erik’s nails when he pushes back the locks. Such a mess, and unforgiveable, considering how pleasant it was to spend minutes at a time petting Charles’ hair. They’ll need to spend some time on a haircut. “You’re right: it won’t last forever. And, when it ends, I’ll still be here.”  
  
“You _left._ ”  
  
Yes. But never again.  
  
“I made a mistake.” But: mistake made, lesson learned, and now there’s time to atone for it. That’s difficult to convey in simple gesture, but Charles is worth the attempt: skimming fingers down the side of his jaw, careful to avoid the bruise, and dipping down into the crevice at the base of his neck, hiding below the color of the terribly bland uniform. Charles twitches at the touch, turning the gesture into a wince when the motion jars his ribs. “Left me have a look at your ribs?”  
  
“I’ve already said: no need. Just bruises.”  
  
Which would explain how he’s breathing well enough. That’ll need to be watched, though, just in case—and despite Charles’ sharp glare, a sliding touch—slower than the first time, and more thorough—down his ribs offers reassurance. No soft spots.  
  
“I _told_ you.”  
  
“And _I_ told you to _watch_ the men that entered. Yet, here you are with physical injuries. That’s piss poor observation, Charles—much more like confrontation, which I don’t recall asking you to instigate.”  
  
“Fuck off.” But it’s said without heat, and a sigh follows immediately after. With it goes Charles’ fight, and he finally slumps back against the body supporting him.   
  
There’s nothing quite like Charles when he relaxes, sinking into his own skin and effecting an effortless languidness that drops his eyes to half-mast. Exhaustion is close behind him—and small wonder, what with the withdrawal, stress, and injuries.  
  
All the same, this early in the morning Charles can’t be allowed to sleep. But that doesn’t mean that they can’t take a little time and simply _be_ , tangled together and breathing.  
  
Just them.

It's been a long time since anything has felt this good.


	21. Day 4, August 25, 1970, 16:27

**[Day 4, August 25, 1970, 16:27]**  
  
“We should play chess.”  
  
Between the continued throbbing in his ribs and the ache in his face, Charles’ attention is almost too absorbed to catch Erik’s quick request. If the room were just a little larger, it might have been plausible to feign ignorance. Unfortunately, though Erik is on the opposite side, having just finished a set of sit-ups, the distance isn’t so expansive that he can easily claim a lack of hearing.  
  
“We’re missing a very vital component for that.”  
  
Erik probably already knows that—which means he’s likely already thought out a way around not having any sort of chess set. Goodness knows the explanation will be welcome: it’s a way to break up the monotony. There’s not much else to do when propped up in bed, shamelessly watching Erik exercise.  
  
Rolling over, Erik gets a hand under himself and springs to his feet with a small bounce in his step. As soon as he’s up, he rolls his shoulders and tugs one arm across his chest, hooking the other arm around his elbow and stretching, working out any tightness left over from his workout. After a few seconds, he switches to the other arm, utterly unmoved by the attention he’s being paid.  
  
That isn’t particularly surprising: Erik has always been a bit amazing in how absolutely unperturbed he is at being watched—at least in a domestic setting. Erik dressing in the morning had been a sight to see, and occasionally Charles had lounged in bed, grinning and running his eyes over every available inch of skin. Erik had always let him, same as he allowed observation in training, in leisure, and in everyday activities. He’d even let Charles stand beside the stove and watch him cook, for godsake.  
  
Back then, watching Erik had felt like a right. Now, it feels like peeking at something that isn’t his: wrong, like a stolen look—a sort of theft. Worse, it’s a reminder. This man is _danger._ He’s damage, and he will leave a trail of broken things in his wake.  
  
Being one of those broken things cuts worse than any outward reprimand ever could.  
  
“Are you all right?” Erik asks with a frown as he reaches the corner of the bed, plucking his shirt off the edge where he’d discarded it earlier. After a few small tugs, he slips it back on over the dully-colored tank top that he hadn’t bothered to shed.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“You don’t look—“  
  
No sun? Alcohol? Eating nothing with much substance? There’s a reason he’s avoided mirrors during the last few years. No man wants to see a preview of how he’ll look once he’s officially a corpse.  
  
But that isn’t what Erik means. No, that would be _easy._ What Erik is after is buried under the guilt derived from staring after what he should no longer want. Touching Erik is a little like touching a live wire. And _yet…._  
  
Swallowing down a deep breath, he tilts his face away from Erik and stares off toward the wall instead. It’s not much of an improvement in terms of mental health: Erik is a danger, yes, but those _walls_ —they’ll drive a man mad.  
  
If they never get out—if—  
  
But Hank will come. Only… maybe not as soon as it had originally seemed like he would. It’s been a few days already. What if they’re here for weeks? Even a month isn’t out of the realm of possibility. If Hank hasn’t already arrived, it must mean he needs time to plan. A high security facility like this, it isn’t unreasonable to think that he’d need more time.  
  
 _“Charles.”_  
  
Erik thinks he’s insane. It’s painted clearly in his tone. That worry, mingled with frustration—and what if he’s right?  
  
No.  
  
This isn’t insanity. Nothing like that. It’s just that the world is too difficult, and nothing fucking matters, so why bother trying? Hiding away from the world doesn’t mean madness.  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps. Is it really so difficult to believe that?  
  
Miraculously, Erik doesn’t chase the subject verbally, though his gaze lingers, hesitant and suspicious, and raking over any possible signs of… whatever it is that he’s looking for. Just a few days, and that scrutiny feels like it’s started making cracks.  
  
And what if Hank is delayed weeks? What then? Erik will keep pressing, and those cracks will widen….  
  
They _can’t_.  
  
Erik—Erik—he says he won’t leave, but letting him in—he _will_ leave, and he’ll break things when he does, and—  
  
“You mentioned chess.” There. Perfectly normal. Look up, meet Erik’s eye, smooth a hand over the bed sheet for good measure. Nasty things, stiff cotton, and the same color as their uniforms. Horrid.  
  
“Yes…” But the word comes out slowly and dragging with hesitancy. Erik follows behind it, climbing up onto the bed on his hands and knees, and scooting forward with increasing confidence when he realizes that he hasn’t been immediately rebuffed. The mattress is firm enough that the bed doesn’t dip much, though it does tilt in his direction.  
  
It’s a rare moment when Erik lets a topic go, but this appears to be one such blessing: his brow wrinkles and he blinks a bit too quickly, but he finally ducks his head and sighs, dropping down onto his right hip and propping himself up with one arm, poised and primed to wait out any stubbornness. How very _Erik._ After decades spent on a quest for revenge, the patience required to wait out the hesitance of one unstable, disaffected man must seem mere child’s play.  
  
And Erik _must_ think him so very broken.   
  
“You’re quite capable of casting illusions,” Erik points out once he’s settled down onto the bed, stretching out a hand to where Charles is smoothing at the blanket. Dipping his fingers in alongside, Erik plays the pads of his fingers out over the peaks and valleys of the blanket, occasionally brushing their fingers together. This sort of contact is—it’s—it’s _different_ , not like being carried to the washroom, or like the effusive release of tension that comes from a physical fight. Fleeting touches like these tease, with each brush releasing a pang of excitement that settles in the gut and upends any hope for emotional stability.  
  
After this long, Erik should not be allowed this close.  
  
And, yet, there was never a hope of dislodging him. Not now.  
  
“If you wanted,” Erik continues on with remarkable ease, given the situation, “I’m sure you could hold a projection of a chessboard, and allow both of us to see it.”  
  
That’s… not a completely horrible idea, actually. Taken to its logical conclusion, the results could be fantastic, when one considers that it would mean a relief to the monotony of this situation. It would be a bit like what Frost did in Russia, projecting an image of herself that felt and looked solid. But to do it to _himself_ is trickier. Except… Erik, if he were to hold the image, could act as a buffer. If _Erik_ conjured the picture, it would be a matter of centering Erik in his own mind, and staying there with him. It would entail tricking Erik’s brain into thinking his _own_ creations were real, rather than convincing him of the existence of someone _else’s_ creations. From there, it would only be necessary to manipulate Erik’s mental images in accordance with Charles’ attempted interactions with the illusion, and that’s practically self-perpetuating. Once Erik starts perpetuating the image, it would be easy enough to dart in and play his own part in the game: Erik’s mind ought to accommodate him.  
  
“I… actually could, I think,” he admits, shifting to sit up a little straighter. Damn wall is cold at his back—and no wonder, when it’s all bland, solid concrete. “I’d need you to create the image, but once you had it in your mind, I’m fairly certain I could hold it there and allow us both to interact with it.”  
  
For someone who made the request in the first place, Erik appears unusually surprised: the corner of his mouth quirks upward, and he arches both eyebrows, titling his head until the skin of his neck pulls tight on one side. Once upon a time, that would have been an invitation to sink teeth into the long tendon stretched from jaw to shoulder, to set a mark into the skin, kiss up to the underside of Erik’s jaw and lick at the pocket just under his ear for minutes at a time, until Erik began to squirm and beg— _order_ , Erik would say—for him to progress further.  
  
“And you’ve never tried that before?”  
  
“I’ve never had anyone who was willing to allow me to camp out in his or her mind long enough to sustain an image quite like that.”  
  
In the space of little more than a handful of seconds, Erik’s surprise vanishes into a roiling ill-temper. Odd, though, that he doesn’t express it, and furthermore that Erik doesn’t appear angry at _him_. Very odd. Erik’s mind is darkened by the anger, and pushing forward a bit further—  
  
Oh.  
  
Erik is—is—  
  
Erik is offended on _Charles’_ behalf.  
  
“You told me to stay out too, you know.” There’s no reason to say that, and it’s foolish to do so. Erik is offering an invitation, and reminding him of all the reasons he once refused is nothing short of idiotic. But Erik—if he were to pull away again, retract that promise….  
  
It’s worth knowing now if that’s likely to occur.  
  
But Erik, rather than reacting with anger as he might have done once—what has _changed?_ —merely nods and sneaks a hand forward, fully committing this time—no teasing brushes—and molding it to Charles’ side. “I’ve already promised: I’ll never block you out again.”  
  
“But that’s not the same as inviting me _in_.”  
  
And apparently that’s a surprise. Erik startles, frowning, though he recovers quickly, and—it doesn’t bode well, the look of determination that’s stealing over every bit of him. For a man that regards most everything as a battle, there’s clear indication of conflict when he squares his shoulders and hardens up his jaw. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough on this subject,” he begins slowly, dragging out the words and lifting a hand. He hovers it over Charles’ jaw, offering time to reject it, but—  
  
Why turn it away? Erik…. this feels like an offer. But—what if Erik leaves again? What if—?  
  
Erik’s hand alights on Charles’ jaw, and, when it isn’t immediately thrown off, he flexes his fingers, smoothing the pads of his fingers over a few inches of skin. It catches on the stubble that’s begun to grow over the past few days, but the rasp of it is satisfying in a strangely primal way. “I love you. And, from now on, you are always welcome in my mind.”  
  
Love.  
  
Erik claims it, but love doesn’t mean leaving someone crippled on a beach. A mistake, Erik had said. But what if he makes a mistake again? What if—what if—?  
  
What if Hank doesn’t come?  
  
“I—“  
  
Bloody hell, what if— _what if—_  
  
“Chess will have to wait.” Shameful, how strangled that comes out sounding, but there’s nothing for it. This is too much. Erik will leave. He _left_. Twice now he’s promised it will never happen again, but believing that….  
  
And love. Erik keeps saying it. He never said it so often before. Why now? He’ll leave—they always leave—everyone always leaves, and love doesn’t mean they won’t. But Erik said he wouldn’t leave. But what if he—?  
  
It’s too much. Everything is too much. The walls, and Erik, and what if Erik left, and the walls were all that remained?  
  
Don’t think about it. Breathe. Turn over, away from Erik, and keep the air coming in and out. The blanket might not be soft, but it helps too, curling up into it, hiding in its folds. Erik doesn’t chase, thank god. His presence remains, though, a solid, existent entity resting just out of sight. But… it’s surprisingly comforting. Who would have thought? Most of Erik’s acquaintances likely wouldn’t think it a good idea to offer him their back. It makes sense.  
  
He really ought to have learned that the _last_ time he left himself vulnerable in Erik’s presence.  
  
And, yet, there’s no worry that Erik will do him deliberate harm.  
  
Surprisingly, Erik’s answer, when it does come, is firm and resolved, though with a hint of sadness: “I’ll wait as long as you need.”  
  
No. He’ll leave. Of course he will.  
  
But what if Hank doesn’t come…?  
  
Stop it. Stop it. Think about something—about chemical equations. Those will do. Recite the periodic table. But _think_ about what isn’t dangerous, and what isn’t _Erik_.  
  
That is, of course, easier said than done.  
  
Worse, too, when a few minutes later Erik finally breaks his embargo on reaction and slides forward. It’s a good weight, warm and safe, familiar too: Erik drapes his arm over Charles’ side, taking up the space between ribcage and hip, and forming up against Charles’ back.  
  
He doesn’t say anything. Nothing at all. He just holds on, breathing softly until Charles’ breathing evens out, and they’re left in sync, breathing together.


	22. Day 5, August 26, 1970, 09:02

**[Day 5, August 26, 1970, 09:02]**  
  
“You need to shave.”  
  
Despite having been here four days, Charles hasn’t yet asked about shaving. If he were thinking logically, he must know that it’s possible, since seven years would be plenty of time to grow a rather impressive beard. But, with everything else that’s occurred, it’s understandable that shaving wasn’t on the top of Charles’ list of considerations.  
  
Unfortunately, it doesn’t look as though it was top of his list even back at Westchester, given the general scruffy state of his appearance. Looking like he does, it’s a good guess to assume that Charles shaved and cut his hair only when his chin itched or his hair grew unruly. Four days of extra beard growth appears to be Charles limit: he’s begun rubbing at his chin with the back of his hand, scrubbing up to his wrist as he grows increasingly irritated with the stubble that’s quickly progressing toward an actual beard that would make an Amish man proud.  
  
“Shaving is a bit more difficult with the ban on anything metalic,” he tells Charles blankly, nudging at him with his foot. Charles, who is sprawled on his back on the floor, gazing at the ceiling, one hand trying to smudge away his beard, merely blinks, startling: evidently he hadn’t known he was scratching at his face.  
  
“You were clean-shaven when they—when I—“  
  
When they tossed Charles down here. It isn’t an easy thing to say. “I have scissors. They have small, non-magnetic blades, but the point is covered in plastic. It’s the sort of thing you might see in a pre-school.” Good of them to give him a pair in gray: if they were of the brightly colored variety, it might be unbearable.  
  
“Doesn’t explain the lack of a beard.”  
  
“Razors can be made from non-magnetic metals.”  
  
Cutting one’s hair with half-plastic scissors is hardly the height of amusement, but, strangely enough, when one has all the time in the world, spending that time on a haircut done with inefficient tools isn’t as irritating a prospect as it once might have been.  
  
Shaving is a different story. Absence has twisted the idea of a good, magnetic metal razor to seem the height of luxury. The aluminum one works, but it’s nowhere near as good a shave as clean, efficient steel.  
  
Charles, apparently jarred into motion by the question, lolls his head back onto the floor. His eyelids are half-masted, but his eyes are lightened by a tinge of interest. It’s the most life that he’s displayed in upwards of what must be over half an hour by now. Counting the beats of the heart is the only way of telling time reliably anymore, save for the lights, but a heightened sense of the passing of time is something that can be developed, and a life in concentration camp, followed by chasing a madman across the globe, and currently culminating is solitary confinement, is useful in that respect.  
  
Charles shifts his jaw, which has the effect of pulling his mouth slightly to the side, and defining one jawline while softening the other. “I’ll pass.”  
  
Of course he will, because Charles wants to pass on everything, life included. If left alone, he’d curl up into a ball and—  
  
“You have no right to judge me.”  
  
“Reading my mind again?” Not that it’s a problem, but Charles _is_ problematically changeable: his mental presence may be a steady fixture, having taken up permanent repose in Erik’s mind, but he’s by no means always an active listener. That has always varied based on his mood and his motivation, and that fluidity is worse than ever now.  
  
“You said I could—“  
  
“Yes. I did. I don’t mind. But don’t blame me when you find thoughts that don’t please you.” And Charles would do well not to expect that anything of what he finds will be easy or soft. Leaving Charles to languish may be the easiest option, but, as deplorable as the saying was when Schmidt tried to use it, there’s some truth to the idea of being cruel to be kind.  
  
“You have _no right_ —“  
  
Again, with that. Charles is very fond of his rights all of a sudden, which is understandable, since he’s abruptly been tossed to the point where he has none. “I’m not going to sit here and watch you let yourself fade. If you lost your routine, you’ll spend hours in one spot, staring at the wall. You— _especially_ you, Charles—will go insane.”  
  
A creature of the mind like Charles could so easily drift away. If he could nearly accomplish that at Westchester, the risk of that happening will only increase here.  
  
“I _can’t_ do anything more than stay in one spot,” Charles snarls, and as languid as he was, he’s lit himself up with a sudden anger. It’s all about knowing the right buttons to push…  
  
And hasn’t he always been terrifyingly adept at pushing Charles’ buttons? Physically, emotionally—no one else could be quite this good, or else quite this poisonous.  
  
“You’ve been sitting in your mansion, day in and day out, indulging in self-pity, drinking, shooting yourself up—and you _look_ like the addict that you are.”  
  
As painful as it is to watch, there’s a certain satisfaction to be had in seeing Charles flip himself over. He drags himself over onto his front, digging his nails down into the floor, and quickly determining that’s a terrible idea with ripped nails. He gasps at the pain that must have radiated up his fingers, but he swallows the noise down into another snarl and hauls himself forward as best he can, using friction and gravity to straighten his legs by dragging them along until they’re pulled over on  their own.  
  
“And _you_ ,” Charles hisses once he’s fully on his front, “look like the _criminal_ that _you_ are. You’re a liar, and a murderer, and if I’m insane, it’s not from locking myself up alone in my house: it’s because I ever trusted you. _No one_ of sound mind would do that.”  
  
It shouldn’t hurt to hear that. Charles has made his views abundantly clear. But….  
  
Earlier this morning, Charles had let himself be held. He’d relaxed, been quiet, allowed the physical closeness to unite them.  
  
“You’ll _always_ leave,” Charles viciously spits out. He appears so small, crumpled on the ground, brokenly propping himself up on one elbow—but it isn’t the paralysis that makes him look so damaged: it’s the hurt in his face, and the absolute, bone-deep exhaustion that should have been evident all along, but…  
  
Fuck. It was there to see. Charles is a mess—that was obvious from the start—but let him rage, let him hate, because that’s all that he has left to fight with, isn’t it? Charles has been stripped of everything else, and he’s fighting the same way any cornered animal would. He’s tired of living, but he can’t give it up just yet. It’s that hope. Charles is angry, _because_ he hopes.  
  
And he’s scared.  
  
_[Don’t you dare think that you understand—]_  
  
And it always, always comes back to the same thing: leaving.  
  
_Proving_ it will happen. Proving that it won’t. And making it happen by choice before it can happen by chance.  
  
_[I understand more about you than you’d like, Charles.]_  
  
And knowing is a terrible thing. Ignorance would mean thinking that this can be soothed away with simple kindness. Give Charles enough attention, and Charles will heal—but that’s a pipe dream. But for a man who knows the secret doubts of anyone’s mind, the only thing that will matter is evidence: there are a thousand possibilities written in a person’s mind, and it’s almost impossible to say what he’ll choose before it happens. Charles plays on possibilities—but he needs the hard concreteness of certainty.  
  
“Get up.”  
  
It isn’t a suggestion. It’s said as he’s striding across the cell and bending down over Charles, locking his arms up under Charles’ shoulders and hauling his upper body upward. Propping Charles against his chest, he ignores the threats and insults and most of all the flailing, instead dragging Charles across the floor toward the bathroom.  
  
This won’t go easily. It’s what Charles _needs_ , but it’s sure as hell not what he _wants_.  
  
_[You don’t have a fucking clue what I need, Erik.]_  
  
_[You need to know that I love you. And I do. And, because I love you, I’m going to do what’s best for you. Hate me for it if you want. But I’m not leaving.]_  
  
For the first time, there’s a spark of belief. Charles might not mean for it to transmit, but, despite all his protests, their minds are still firmly entangled.  
  
“Wake up, and face reality. Hank isn’t coming. I’m not leaving. And you need to deal with the consequences of both.”  
  
“You think reality means everyone wanting to kill you,” Charles bites out, huffing when he’s placed down against the bathroom wall. He’s dwarfed like that, swallowed up by the wall and his own glare.  
  
“Hardly. Occasionally, my enemies believe I’m more useful alive.”  
  
That comment no doubt would have been followed by a stream of more abuse, but heading Charles off is becoming the necessity of the moment, and it’s accomplished very effectively by going to work on the buttons of his shirt. It stalls Charles out, and he gapes, tossing his head back and then wincing when it smacks into the wall. Whatever he was expecting, it clearly wasn’t to be stripped. But that’s Charles—for a telepath, he’s surprisingly predictable, clinging to his pre-supposed notions, regardless of what he could find if he were to look a little deeper.  
  
“Hair first, I think.”  
  
Except letting any sort of scissor near Charles when he’s prone to lashing out so violently is probably not the best course of action—nor is using the jacket to tie his hands behind his back… but the second of those two options, while unpleasant, is effective. Let Charles curse him if he likes. He’ll tire eventually.  
  
“I’m finished allowing you to wallow in your pain. I may not know how to fix all your hurts, but I’m damn well going to keep you alive until I find a way to put you back together. Understand?”  
  
Charles has never understood anything until he wants to—and right now he very obviously has no intention of processing anything that’s being said to him. All the same, letting him rage like this is probably good for him too. He needs to burn this out of himself.  
  
Rage is simply like that—and serenity is unattainable unless the rage has burned down to manageable levels.  
  
“I’m going to wet your hair.”  
  
“Do you feel strong, manhandling a cripple, Erik?”  
  
Charles isn’t pretty when he sneers. It hides too much of his mouth, thinning out what is usually generous and sweet. On anyone else it would be a turn-off, but on Charles it’s almost a challenge: that frown begs to be smoothed away.  
  
“You didn’t know what to do with me four days ago, but now you think you know exactly what I need—“  
  
“I didn’t understand what was wrong with you four days ago.” Ignoring Charles’ bitten-off curse, he grasps the plastic handle, turning on the shower. It would be easiest to drag Charles into the shower itself, but that would mean wetting Charles’ jacket, and Charles doesn’t have a change of clothing. But… they do have blankets, and if Charles finds it too cold without clothing, he can wear Erik’s clothes.  
  
Shower it is, then.  
  
“What the hell are you—?”  
  
Charles never gets the last few words out: a sputter of indignation steals his breath, and he sets about trying to duck away instead. He couldn’t go far, but he’s by no means ready to concede that, and he pitches about, straining his shoulders and doing his best to rip his arms loose from the jacket. He shouldn’t bother: knot tying is a skill that Erik has long since mastered.  
  
“Lean forward.” It isn’t a request, and Charles wouldn’t have heeded it anyway if it were. Actual compliance necessitates planting a palm down between Charles’ shoulder blades and shoving him commandingly forward, no request required. His skin is slick with water, and Erik’s hand slides, skidding down and ending up braced firmly over Charles neck. That’ll do just as well: forming up his fingers to Charles’ nape, he holds Charles bent over into the stream of water. The rush hits heavily, parting Charles’ hair and exposing a sliver of pink scalp that disappears quickly when Charles thrashes, scattering the strands of hair.  
  
With his free hand, he combs through Charles’ hair, spreading out the water and working it into the strands. Charles sputters again, trying to tip sideways, but his hair makes an excellent hold, and Charles pulls up at the pressure on his scalp, concentrating instead on the now soaked jacket that binds his wrists.  
  
_[Let me up—]_  
  
May as well, now that his hair is soaked through. This isn’t an attempt at waterboarding: it’s a means of preparing Charles for a haircut.  
  
“Sit still.”  
  
Charles doesn’t. The second he’s deposited against the wall he pitches sideways, tossing himself down on the ground and trying to roll, though the motion is half-aborted and disturbingly broken. He can’t pull himself like this, tied up and without leverage.  
  
It’s an entire lack of capability—and no one cares about the cruelty inherent in that. They’ve thrown Charles down here with no way to defend himself. Killing Charles—he could do it, and they wouldn’t give a damn. Or maybe they would, but it would be too late to stop it. They’ve left him, helpless, like a broken doll.  
  
They’re _wrong_.  
  
Charles is broken, but it isn’t his legs that have caused that. He’s more than his legs, more than his physicality: the paralysis only looks like broken because it’s reflecting his inner state. If Charles were well, he’d make his disability into strength.  
  
“You want to be this person, Charles?” he tosses out, already reaching for a towel. It sops up the standing water in Charles’ hair, but actually rubbing the excess water out is a little more difficult given Charles’ struggles. “You are acting exactly like you look: broken, insane, unstable—“  
  
“And _you_ are acting exactly like _them_ : forcing me, disregarding what I want—“  
  
“Has it occurred to you that _you_ know I’m right?”  
  
If not, then Charles has nevertheless weighed the pros and cons of the situation and has determined that submitting to a bout of personal grooming is less daunting than being left alone again, even if it’s only a room—and not a proper room—that separates them.  
  
Always that fear of being alone.  
  
_[Do it, then. Leave. I know you will—]_  
  
“Not unless you make me.”  
  
“I _can’t_.” He saws his hands against the bindings for emphasis.  
  
“Oh, Charles.” And he laughs. Bitter and long, and—he has every right, damn it. All the reason in the world to be bitter. “We both know that isn’t true.”  
  
As rigid as Charles’ body becomes, one would think he’s been melded together from the inside out. It makes for easy access, slowing him down long enough to have his hair tousled and wrung dry.  
  
Charles hisses out a shuddering breath, catching the tail end of it in his teeth. “No.”  
  
“Stop me, if you think I’m so wrong.”  
  
“No. _No_.” The very idea of it is blatantly problematic to Charles, though he ducks his head to try to hide the reaction. Normally it would work, but the movement is too close to struggling, and he’s easily caught, held—  
  
A damn good excuse, needing to hold Charles still. But there is no excuse for locking their gazes, or for the gentle thumb that he works up over Charles’ jawline. “You don’t want to try to leave my mind. And for that alone, you’ll let me do this. But you _know_ I’m right.”  
  
No matter what his mood, Charles hasn’t tried to separate their minds since being given permission to enter. He won’t. That isolation is what he’s most afraid of, and while his pride may be substantial, it isn’t strong enough to override _this_.  
  
Charles doesn’t protest the assertion verbally, settling instead for a searing glare. He sets his jaw, grinding it back and forth, but rather than appearing formidable, it diminishes the perception of his size and leaves him looking furious and small, harmless in effect if not in thought.  
  
Truthfully, Charles is probably murdering him in his thoughts.  
  
Fine. So long as it remains confined to fantasy, Charles may do as he likes. God knows he’s earned it, after Cuba. If weathering Charles’ anger is what it takes to atone for that, then so be it. However long it takes, however trying it is, they’ll push through that anger until Charles believes the same mistake won’t happen twice.  
  
“Did you _ever_ properly cut your hair? Or did you just hack if off when it began to irritate you?” Snagging the comb resting on the plastic sink, he sets to work on the ends of Charles’ hair first. The middle is simply too tangled to offer a place to begin: they’ll start at the ends and work inwards.  
  
“Hank cut it occasionally,” Charles spits out, flashing his eyes dangerously. He huffs when the comb tugs an especially tangled knot, but reality has set in on him, and he appears to have comprehended there’s not much that he can do for the time being.  
  
Or, it may be that he doesn’t _want_ to stop the proceedings. Not really.  
  
“You don’t know a damn thing about me, Erik. If you really understood, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”  
  
Ah, yes, because Charles’ capture is undoubtedly _Erik’s_ fault. A good many things _are_ his fault, but if Charles would be so kind as to refrain from unjustly adding to that burden, that would be ideal. As things stand now, two minutes more, and Charles will probably accuse him of being responsible for original sin itself.  
  
“You aren’t a martyr,” Charles snips. “Stop trying. It doesn’t suit you.”  
  
He eases through the knot, moving on to pick at the next bit. “Mmm. Pot, meet kettle.” Those mornings in bed, when he used to pet Charles’ hair—they’re so far away now. Thick, well-kept hair, soft….  
  
“You shot the _president_ , and yet you still have the gall to act as though you’ve been unjustly imprisoned. Of the two of us, I think you’re by far the more deluded.”  
  
Hmm. Kennedy’s assassination: that topic was bound to surface at some point. It’s frankly a miracle Charles hasn’t touched it before now. That doesn’t make it _pleasant._  
  
Without breaking his rhythm—neat little pulls, knot after knot—he answers: “I didn’t kill the president.”  
  
If disbelief could be conveyed in motion, Charles achieves his thoughts well enough through rolling his shoulders, fluidly rotating them back as far as he can and recoiling into himself. “The bullet curved, Erik.”  
  
Oh—that particular stroke was a little harsh: Charles is justified in flinching this time. “Because I was trying to save him.” Which Charles will never believe—not without proof.  
  
Despite everything, he can’t help but feel pathetically proud about that. Charles has always been naïve, and to see that tempered—if only a little—by skepticism is almost comforting. Charles _should_ question these things.  
  
_[Of course I don’t believe you. You hate the government. You hate—]_  
  
“He was one of us.”  
  
It hadn’t seemed possible at first. Raven had gained the intel during a particularly well-placed bout of undercover work. They’d only hoped to uncover more on the government agenda concerning mutants, specifically with an eye toward any information gleaned regarding those involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis—but, as it turns out, those records don’t exist. Nothing about mutant involvement in that event was ever confirmed.  
  
Kennedy ordered the records destroyed.  
  
Curiosity had driven them to dig deeper—and eventually they’d found out _why_ he’d been so keen to protect mutants.  
  
Kennedy, a mutant. And everyone involved in Cuba, safe. It had seemed altogether too good to be true. And it _had_ been. They hadn’t been safe. No one had ever _been_ safe. Kennedy was a temporary solution, and thinking that anyone had left that beach unaltered, unharmed, that _all_ records had been found and destroyed—  
  
The evidence negating that is currently twisting and fighting under his hands.  
  
Was Charles’ hair always this thick? Yes, it was—and forgetting seems impossible once the memory bubbles back to the surface. His fingers in Charles’ hair, tugging, urging him forward, harder, that tiny hitch in Charles’ gasps that only happened when he was close to his climax….  
  
“One of us—?” Charles echoes, and for the first time since they’ve entered the bathroom, the fight drains out of his limbs. Pressing his fingers down to the floor, he leans back, baring his throat as he strives to gain eye contact. “Surely that can’t be right.”  
  
Why? Because Charles doesn’t want it to be? Life doesn’t work that way. If it could, if he could give Charles the things he wanted, and tuck him away safe from the world and anything that would harm his rose-tinted view—  
  
If that were possible, they would need to rewind time, reset it before that day on the beach.  
  
They can’t.  
  
It’s only the future that remains to be seen. He and Charles, together again.  
  
“There.” With the last tangle undone, it’s now a matter of retrieving the scissors and finding a way to keep Charles’ head motionless long enough to work through the frustrating process of trimming with the pathetic excuse for scissors. Magnetic is always better. Seven years without touching magnetic metal—  
  
Don’t think about it.  
  
Think of Charles instead: “Are you going to let me do this?”  
  
“I—“  
  
“Well?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Hmm. Unexpected. But Charles sounds sincere—or at least stunned into compliance. The information about Kennedy has sucked out the resistance. Was that really all it took? Just make him see that the man he’s vilified is not guilty of the crime for which he’s been imprisoned? It’s a fine distinction, because—he _is_ guilty. Maybe not for killing Kennedy, but he put a bullet in his lover’s back. There’s no guilt quite like _that_.  
  
Seven years locked away isn’t enough to absolve what he’s done.  
  
But it’s a start.  
  
“No, Erik—that’s not— _no one_ deserves this.”  
  
“Two minutes ago, I’m fairly certain you thought _I_ did.”  
  
Cutting hair is, not surprisingly, far easier with Charles remaining in one spot voluntarily. This way it’s possible to comb the hair up, work it through his fingers, with the tips of the strands peeking out, ready to be snipped away. It’s a task, a way to keep the hands busy, the mind occupied—anything but sinking too deeply into this topic. The conversation needs to be had, yes, but that doesn’t mean giving all of body and soul to it. If that were the case, they’d never emerge out the other side.  
  
“Maybe. I was wrong.”  
  
_That_ must be a new taste in Charles’ mouth, saying those words. Admitting that he’s _wrong_? Will wonders never cease?  
  
“That isn’t fair. I do admit when I’m—“  
  
“Haven’t we just established that fair has very little bearing on this situation?”  
  
A few quick snips send the longest parts of Charles’ hair fluttering to the floor. This might mean the cleaners will come earlier this week. After last time they’ll likely take greater precautions. Potentially, that could mean new information. Any change in habit is always an opportunity.  
  
“No,” Charles murmurs faintly, “I suppose you’re right.”  
  
Yes. But it doesn’t feel as good as it should. Proving Charles wrong was only ever pleasurable when it didn’t cause either of them pain. It’s bitter, watching Charles’ eyes drop and graze over the floor, scanning once again over the walls. Fair has no place here, it’s true, but no matter how long it has _been_ true, it never becomes easier. It’s worse now, watching Charles crumple, shoulders sagging and face twisting up into a grimace.  
  
“Erik…”  
  
“Hmm?” One snip, then another, with the pieces fluttering down into a haphazard circle of clippings.  
  
“How long are we going to be here?” His voice breaks over the last word, and he ducks away, trying to hide the front of his face. The movement nearly results in too great a snip, but for once Charles’ lack of cooperation can’t be blamed on pointless stubbornness.  
  
This is something far more painful.  
  
Potential loss of hope so often _is_.  
  
“Not forever.”  
  
 A pause. And then: “You actually believe that.” There’s an element of astonishment to the sound of Charles’ voice.  
  
“Yes.” _Snip, snip, snip_.  
  
Angling one hand under Charles’ chin, he tilts Charles’ head to the side, sliding his fingers up to his face and pressing lightly: _stay there_ , said via physical command.  
  
For once, Charles does as he’s told.  
  
The hair at the nape of Charles’ neck is a little more difficult to get right. Shorter hair—his own hair—is easier to make presentable, but Charles’ hair as it was when they’d first been together has always held an appeal in Erik’s memories, and the prospect of being able to touch that again is too alluring to be deterred by a small difficulty. If Charles keeps on holding still, they can manage this.  
  
All the same, it’s strange, seeing the cut slowly take shape while Charles’ face remains scruffy and unkempt. Charles’ beard had at least been relatively well trimmed when he’d arrived here, but by this point it’s growing slightly shaggy. It ages him—but any amount of facial hair would do that. Clean shaven, he’s blessed with a baby face. Sweet, almost, to match Charles’ personality—or so it had seemed when he’d first known Charles. Smooth cheeks, bright blue eyes, that almost boundless excitement—he’d looked so _young_ , and, for all his philandering, untouched.  
  
“Sorry you spoiled that?” Charles asks with an acidic smile, though he doesn’t move to face Erik head-on.  
  
“You aren’t spoiled.”  
  
“Erik.” He laughs, low and raked over. It isn’t a pretty sound. “Have you looked at me? Have you _listened_ to me?”  
  
“Yes.” Laying the scissors aside—there are more important things right at the moment—he trails his fingers up under Charles’ jawline, sneaking them over his cheek. His fingertips brush briefly at Charles’ temples, and he taps lightly at the skin there, cupping Charles’ cheek in his hand and swirling a thumb into the short hairs at the very edge of his hairline. They’re almost velvety. “You’re very determined to wreck yourself, darling. But you’ve failed, despite your best efforts. You _aren’t_ broken.”  
  
No, never. _Never_ , if he has any say in this, in Charles’ future.  
  
But Charles—he chokes out a harsh, dry sob, but when he tries to turn away, that hand is there to stop him. Carefully, Erik steps in closer, pressing his lower abdomen against the side of Charles’ head, and, as gently as he can, curls in the fingers on Charles’ face, reeling Charles’ in and melding them together, cheek to stomach, shoulder to hip. “You’re afraid. And you’re angry. Your thoughts reek of it. But you’re still _you_. And _you_ will always be what _I_ want.”


	23. Day 5, August 26, 1970, 9:15

**[Day 5, August 26, 1970, 9:15]**  
  
Erik is gentle.  
  
He’s kind hands and a patient strength, and as brutal as he can be at times—as terribly destructive—there’s no one else in the world who could offer the safety that so misleadingly leaks out from his touch. Being the center of Erik’s softer shades of attention shoves the world into the background. Of all the addictions that Erik has accused him of having, this may very well be the worst. A bullet in the back just doesn’t seem to matter when Erik settles down to a point where he turns languid and easy, weaving his hands through Charles’ hair and learning the lines of his face through touch alone.  
  
There’s no safety in this place. If their jailers wanted, they could shoot both of them dead without a hint of warning. Letting Erik enfold him in an embrace doesn’t change that, but, conversely, imminent danger doesn’t sap the feeling of security that comes from having Erik curled around him, bending down from where he’s standing to enfold himself around Charles’ upper body.  
  
Erik wants him. Why doubt that? Erik is precisely the opposite of someone who is buffeted about by passing opinions and frivolities. His commitments last years, and they so often consume his life. Why would Erik’s affections be any different? If he can spend years viciously hating a man to the point that his life was consumed with the hunt for him, surely he can love foolishly.  
  
“I’m afraid.”  
  
The words alone are worse than a punch to the gut. Let the guards return and beat him: it would be better than this. And yet… And _yet…._  
  
He feels better for having said it.  
  
“I know,” Erik mumbles out into his hair, turning his face to the side and nosing through brown curls. “There were days, before you came—I couldn’t think, for how smothering everything seemed. The days were so _long_. To suddenly not be alone—I was sane, but I’m far saner now than I was before you arrived. Everything is easier. Not easy, but having you here—it’s so much easier not to lose my mind from minute to minute. It’s easier to _recognize_ a minute.”  
  
_[Erik…]_  
  
In any other circumstance, he’d be embarrassed at how he whines, high in his throat, and turns, tucking his face in against Erik’s stomach and allowing himself to be cradled close. It looks terribly like weakness, but the one saving grace is: it’s so easy to pretend that _there’s no one here to see it._  
  
Erik strokes through his hair—almost reverent—brushing it back away from his face and dropping kisses against the side of his head. They catch in the rough facial hair that’s still there despite the haircut, but Erik pushes on without pause, breathing deeply enough that Charles can feel it against his cheek.  
  
“If you leave…”  
  
Erik’s arms tighten. “I won’t.”  
  
Not _I can’t._ No. It’s: I _won’t._  
  
_Won’t._  
  
A choice.  
  
Erik could. He might. He did before. But… there’s insanity, or there’s the choice to believe him.  
  
“All right,” he breathes out shakily, squeezing his eyes shut when Erik smiles against his cheek.


	24. Day 5, August 26, 1970, 15:22

**[Day 5, August 26, 1970, 15:22]**  
  
“Check.”  
  
In an old, wood-paneled study, they play chess. It isn’t Westchester, but the setting is rather like it, and it’s telling that Erik, who has constructed the details, would choose this. The set is the same too, utterly reminiscent of that last night before Cuba, though distinguished with tiny, insignificant details: the shade of white was a little darker in reality, the squares of the board a half centimeter bigger. But those flaws are hardly worth noticing at all—not worth disparaging, at any rate. If anything, they give the setting a worn, familiar feel, indicating that the memory has been played over until it is as used as an oft-read, dog-eared paperback novel.  
  
Frowning, Charles nudges his king out of reach. It’s been a long match. No matter: consider it a perk of having nowhere to be and nothing to do.  
  
“It’s been a long time since I’ve played,” he admits, dodging the satisfaction in Erik’s smirk as he surveys the board, eyes glittering with the knowledge of imminent victory.  
  
“I can tell.”  
  
“ _You_ shouldn’t be any better off.”  
  
“I’ve had years to consider my strategies.”  
  
“You’ve played chess in your own mind?”  
  
“Not like this.”  
  
No, surely not: no one but a telepath or some variety of illusion-caster could achieve these circumstances. But Erik is blade-sharp clever, and he would be fully capable of envisioning a board in his own head and thinking out the moves. Whatever he’s been doing, it’s likely been of more mental use than drowning in alcohol.  
  
 To their right, the fire crackles and pops, and a log drops, shooting up sparks. Erik eyes the disturbance momentarily, but he quickly dismisses it and returns to examining the board so intently that his eyes jump back and forth, type-writer quick, over the squares.  
  
“Checkmate.”  
  
Damn it. Nothing left for it but to tip his king and dip his head, acknowledging Erik’s victory. But… there’s a pause in the motion, with Erik’s gaze trailing along too, tense as the rest of him. They’ve drawn the game out as long as was feasibly possible, but it’s been clear from the start that neither of them has been especially eager to win.  
  
Like ripping off a bandage: the king goes down easily, rolling off to the side, reaching the side of the board before the edges of the illusion begin to blur and deteriorate, fading to white.  
  
The worst part is how the color never comes back.  
  
When the illusion has slipped away completely, they’re left once again in the little room, lying side by side on the bed. It had to happen eventually, and it’s precisely this danger—the desperation to remain free of reality for even a few seconds longer—that led them to agree upon added failsafes in the illusion. Things like tipping the king—natural actions that would tear them back to reality, lest they end up lost in their own minds, with Charles unable to bring himself to actively work to untangle them. If the mechanism for that is set before the vision begins, it’s easier.  
  
“Good game,” Erik mutters from next to him, levering his arm over by propping it on the bed. He pats Charles’ stomach familiarly with the back of his hand.  
  
That’s all it was. A _game._ Erik has evidently learned to deal with the disappointment of reality, but that’s an acquired skill, and a few days have not proved sufficient to teach it.  
  
That is, if Erik _has_ learned it. As composed as he is, that’s the most obvious conclusion, but….  
  
“Are they watching us?”  
  
Erik’s breath hitches. “Hmm?”  
  
“What we’re doing is illegal, you know. If they’re watching….”  
  
And they’re _always_ watching. Erik has said as much. Whether or not he had, the obvious conclusion is that the government would provide constant surveillance for such high security prisoners. “Playing chess is illegal now? What a draconian world it turns out to be.”  
  
“I didn’t mean it to be funny.” Not at all, and Erik’s dry humor is not altogether appreciated—although, it isn’t altogether unwelcome, either. It eases things, in its own strange way. “Sex between two men—“  
  
“We haven’t had sex.”  
  
Not in the Pentagon, anyway. Erik could not conceivably be referring to the mansion: they’ve had sex just about _everywhere_ in the mansion. Of course that’s an exaggeration, but at the time it had felt like everywhere. On the table, down by the lake, in the bed, in the closet, over the hood of a car in the garage. As hesitant as he’d been to modify memories, there is a very good reason that Sean is now missing several minutes.  
  
Erik hums appreciatively, and—very unsurprising, that he’s thinking back on happier times. Memories of some of those very events. Oh, yes—the time in the pantry—  
  
“We… could,” Erik ventures. It isn’t as sudden as it seems. The tone itself is nearly hesitant, and he drags over the second word, but the suggestion nevertheless hits like a slap to the face. No amount of lead-up would have softened that blow. “Have sex, that is.”  
  
“We already have.”  
  
“Not recently.”  
  
“No. _Think_ about it, Erik—“  
  
“I _am_.”  
  
Oh, no doubt. “If, as you say, we’re constantly monitored, we’re already taking quite a large risk just from being… close.” Lying this near to each other in the same bed, kissing, Erik’s constant smattering of affection—they’re on the border of committing a crime while under constant surveillance, locked up on account of wrongs neither of them own in the first place. To give the government actual evidence—it seems the height of stupidity.  
  
And they’ve likely already done it.  
  
They’ll be here forever like this. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. They’ll keep them here, like criminals. He and Erik. Forever, tucked away. It’s—breathing—it’s very difficult all of a sudden—as though—  
  
Erik’s fingers creep forward and circle Charles’ wrist.  
  
“Shush, Charles.”  
  
As if being silent will help. But that isn’t what Erik means. He means calm. He doesn’t need to say it for that to be true, because this has always been Erik in his quiet moments, when the world isn’t watching: slightly emotionally stunted, but attentive, mixing a steel will with concern and softer emotion.  
  
“They’d watch us.”  
  
A slight pause, and then: “Yes…”  
  
“On _tape_.”  
  
Erik’s fingers squeeze lightly, and, when they finally release, he skates the tips of his fingers up Charles’ wrist, hovering over his pulse point and rubbing down, pressing out the blood in the skin under his touch before letting it rush back in the second that he moves on to a new patch of skin. “It’ll be the most excitement they’ll ever have in their miserable lives, I’m sure.”  
  
“I don’t want the U.S. government watching me have sex, Erik! They’d—they would have _proof, on tape_ that we had committed a crime.”  
  
Humming thoughtfully, Erik tips over onto his side. Planting his elbow down onto the bed, he hovers over Charles. Erik’s too observant for his own good sometimes, and it’s unsettling to be the object of his scrutiny. The beauty of his eyes often derails consideration of exactly what he’s looking for, but if there’s the opportunity to take a step back and objectively consider the meaning of Erik’s gaze, it isn’t half so attractive: Erik is analyzing _him_ , picking apart his thoughts and aligning his plans in preparation for an offensive. “When we leave here, do you really believe the government would be foolish enough to pursue you?”  
  
“I _think_ , Erik, that you’re very stupid for voicing that thought.”  
  
A quirk of Erik’s lips is the only indication that he’s at all emotionally moved by the insult. The worst part is, far from being chastened, he’s only amused. _[Once we leave here, it would be dangerous to chase you. This time, you would know they’re coming. With your powers, and with your financial and social influence, you could fight back. They couldn’t afford to come after you when you’re aware and can notify others.]_  
  
_[Or they could just kill me.]_  
  
_[They could_ try _.]_ Erik’s anger is like oil spilling into the ocean: it clouds his thoughts and covers everything. _[This is why we need to fight, Charles. We need to protect ourselves and others like us.]_  
  
Effortlessly turning over these days is rather an impossibility, considering one half of his body isn’t inclined to cooperate. If he could move easily, he ought to be flipping away from Erik, running for the far end of the cell as quickly as he can. Instead, despite all common sense and best intentions, he tips his upper body toward Erik. Under other circumstances it would be dreadfully insulting how quickly Erik sees what he’s trying to do and, in an effort to help, reaches down to assist with the dead weight. His hands hook under Charles’ thighs, and, with a care that most wouldn’t believe, he guides Charles over onto his side. _[Your logic is marvelously circular. You say I will have leverage to prevent them from revealing any tapes of our time here, and, yet, you suggest I actively provoke them and create a situation where smearing my reputation may seem the best bet. If I’m already attacking them, what would they have to lose by revealing damaging information? Either way, I’m causing them trouble.]_  
  
_[Anything they reveal would require an explanation for why you were in government custody in the first place.]_  
  
_[My association with_ you _isn’t enough?]_  
  
Erik’s fingers tickle down his ribs, quickly followed by a good, solid rubbing from his palm to counteract the desire to squirm. Erik has never been stingy with his affection in bed, but it’s been years since they’ve touched like this, and though Erik appears to have fallen easily back into old habits, that doesn’t mean that ease is contagious.  
  
_[They could just as easily expose you for being a telepath, Charles. And, if they were to publish pictures of us lying together like we are right now, do you really think anyone would stop to verify whether or not I actually fucked you?]_  
  
The idea being, if they’ll talk, then give them a reason? Is that it? _[And you have]_ he admits softly, and—giving in may be a mistake, but Erik is here and warm and _real_ , and, most of all, he is _Erik._ Whatever it is about Erik—that draw that Erik has—always pulls Charles in inescapably, and by the time he realizes he’s pressed a kiss against the bare skin of Erik’s shoulder, the shock of it is over and done with, and all he can feel is a dull, _Well, yes, of course._  
  
All the tension in Erik’s body rushes out in one relieved sigh. He hadn’t felt tense, but now that he’s truly relaxed, the difference is inescapable. “I’d like to do it again,” Erik ventures, rubbing his palm over Charles’ ribs for a second time. He digs the heel of it down into the spaces between each rib, dragging it slowly from space to space.  
  
“It wouldn’t be the same. I’m…” Broken? Yes, but, more than that, lost. There has been no one since Erik. No exploration of sex in what is, for all intents and purposes, a new body. It would have been better to re-accustom himself to sex in this condition with someone who had no prior expectations. Erik will want certain things, and he will inevitably be disappointed when those things are no longer possible.  
  
“Did I ever give you the impression that sex between us was only on account of your body?” Erik rumbles close to his ear. Bizarrely, he sounds patient—and most people would undoubtedly be surprised to learn that, in interpersonal relationships, that isn’t out of the ordinary for him. This isn’t the first time Erik has waited him out or walked him through uncertainty without losing a single shred of composure. “And bodies change, Charles. I wouldn’t have found you any less beautiful as you aged; I’ll hardly find you any less beautiful because you no longer have the use of your legs.”  
  
Perhaps not, but he’ll find sex less pleasurable when it becomes more trouble than it’s worth. How many elderly people still have enthusiastic sex, after all? As time passes, surely partnerships become more about companionship.  
  
Erik sighs, but he doesn’t draw back. If anything, his touch becomes more insistent, his hand splaying out over Charles’ midsection. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.”    
  
“It’s fine, Erik: I understand.” Bitter laugher bubbles up in his throat, and he turns his face away. “It isn’t as though you have any better options at the moment. It’s only me.”  
  
A low growl. “It was only _ever_ you. After we met, there’s been no one else, Charles.”  
  
As if that could possibly be the truth. “You expect me to believe that you haven’t slept with anyone else since we were together?”  
  
“None of them ever _meant_ anything. One night stands—worthless. I never wanted any of them like I want you, and I only ever indulged because I couldn’t _have_ you.”  
  
Erik would really do better just to slap him. It would be kinder. Quicker. “Before you ended up here, you could have come home any time you wanted. You chose not to.”  
  
The sheets catch and bunch when Erik rolls to the side, propping himself up on his forearms. He may not realize he’s doing it, but having the advantage of a higher physical position is, at the moment, a killing psychological advantage: there’s the distinct temptation to curl up under Erik, possibly coax him into lowering himself down and blanketing Charles with his body.  
  
“I should have,” Erik admits quietly, sounding as though the words are dragged out of him. “But I wasn’t going to abandon the cause, no more than you were going to abandon your own ideals.”  
  
“Oh? And when we find a way out of here, those ideals won’t have changed, Erik. You say you won’t leave me again, but _nothing will have changed_.” In a fit of irritation, he pitches his body over, pushing facedown into the pillow where he isn’t forced to stare Erik in the face. Erik will leave. But he’d promised. He said he wouldn’t. And hadn’t he chosen to believe Erik? He had. There’s no going back on it now. Erik has promised. Erik lives out his promises. But whatever he decides, what a mess it’s bound to be, and after they’ve rotted years away in this tiny prison, how much of either of them will be left to think—?  
  
Teeth settling in at the nape of his neck pinch the movement out of him. But movement isn’t necessary: Erik is already carefully turning his legs over for him, settling him more easily down onto his stomach before lowering the bulk of his weight down to press Charles directly into the mattress.  
  
“I’m going to fight, Charles,” he murmurs, wet and hot into the skin where he’s laid his teeth, “just like I fought before. But I was wrong in thinking that fighting meant leaving you. I’ll be in your bed every night, and in your life every day. There _is_ a war coming, but laying the infrastructure for it is as important as fighting on the front lines. I can pull the strings from behind the scenes, and until it comes to the point where we _all_ must fight, _my_ fight will be the kind that won’t require me to leave you—not for longer than a few days at a time, at the most a week or so, and never often.”  
  
The sheer _nerve_ of that. “And you think I’ll let you bring your war to my doorstep? No. You aren’t going to orchestrate murder from within my house.”  
  
Erik scoffs. “As if I’d bring danger home to you.” Perching his elbows on either side of Charles, he aligns their bodies and gives a languid rock with his hips. He isn’t hard yet, but his interest is beginning to become apparent, enough that it’s possible to feel his length begin to harden. It would be very like Erik to make certain that he’s positioned himself just high enough up Charles’ back in order for that to be perceptible. “You’ll have your school, you’ll teach them what you please, and I’ll be there at your side through all of it. Anything else will be well out of your view and far away from your doors.”  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
“Well.” He chuckles, nipping the nape of Charles’ neck again. “I never said it would be _easy_.”  
  
“It won’t be _possible._ ”  
  
A hum of consideration—though there’s no possibility that Erik is considering what he should be. He never does. “Would you like a child of your own?   
  
Bloody hell. This is insane. It’s a pipe dream. When Hank comes, and when they leave this place, Erik thinks it will be that simple, but it won’t, and everything will break. Erik _promised_ , he promised, but it’s all going to shatter, and this time, those dusty hallways are going to close in like this cell, and alcohol might not be enough, and—  
  
This time, Erik’s bite is hard enough to hurt, and Charles jerks, yelping.  
  
“Stop it, Charles.”  
  
And he does. He wheezes out a long, thin breath, pressed out by Erik’s weight atop his back. Erik must be lowering himself deliberately, just enough to make himself felt, since the weight isn’t overly oppressive: grounding, but not smothering. Despite everything, it works, cutting through the haze of panic and anchoring him to the physical senses of the bed, Erik’s weight, and the pulses of their hearts.  
  
“You’ve always wanted a family,” Erik murmurs.  
  
Ah, yes, _family_ : a dead father, and an alcoholic mother who couldn’t be bothered with him, an abusive step parent and his bully of a son, a sister for whom he’d given everything and who had _left—_  
  
And Erik.  
  
Erik would be the first person to have stayed.  
  
If he does indeed stay.  
  
 He will. He _will._  
  
“I love you.” Whispered out against his cheek in feathery puffs of breath, and followed by ticklish brushes of Erik’s lips that grow more substantial as he pulls his arms in tighter, forcing Charles into a smaller space where Erik nearly covers him completely, boxing him in on three sides. “I _love_ you,” Erik says again, not relenting: he dabs his tongue against Charles’ jaw, scattering open-mouthed kisses.  
  
“Erik…”  
  
Nothing in him wants to try to throw Erik off. When he turns, it’s only to crane his neck and brush his cheek against Erik’s. This feeling of being small and safe and held—it’s dangerous and addictive, and far too like what they had before. The night before Cuba, they’d fucked on the floor in front of the fireplace, chess game long since forgotten, and Erik had held him down. Then he’d been lying on his back, with Erik’s body covering him, but it had been so similar to this.  
  
“You’re so eager to tell me exactly what you want, Charles, except when it matters the most.”  
  
Because what matters the most hurts equally as much when it’s snatched away—and Erik should know that full well.  
  
“A family? A home?”  
  
“I want to leave _here_.”  
  
Erik’s half-chuckle emerges more as a snuffle into the newly short hairs by Charles’ ear. “And you will. You’ll make it through, and when we finally _do_ find a way out” _[I won’t leave you.]_  
  
A promise or a curse.  
  
But he relaxes under Erik’s body all the same.


	25. Day 5, August 26, 1970, 22:47

**[Day 5, August 26, 1970, 22:47]**  
  
They haven’t had sex.  
  
There’s one part of Erik’s body in particular that is painfully aware of that fact, but the more important of his functions—call common sense one of them—forcibly stamp out the disappointment. Pushing Charles into it would be a mistake. There are too many doubts rioting in Charles’ mind, and though he would have allowed it, pressuring him would have permanently set the issue between them.  
  
There shouldn’t be anything between him and Charles. Not ever again.  
  
There will be fights—there always were—simply on account of their different personalities, but Charles…  
  
Charles is something else.  
  
But… having things is dangerous. Having things means losing them, and losing Charles—Charles has become _vital_. Thinking otherwise was mere blindness—the kind of naivety he accuses Charles of having. Between Cuba and Dallas—what had those years mattered? Charles had been a constant weight, haunting everything, and that had been _before_ Charles had physically been his to keep once again. Losing Charles properly had never been an option, but now having him close has become a necessity.  
  
Dangerous.   
  
“You fight harder than someone twice your size,” he mutters out into the darkness of the room, brushing a touch to Charles’ hair. Even trimmed short, it falls into Charles’ face as he sleeps. Messy and in his eyes, it cuts the years off of him: he looks so _young_ , bright mouth hanging open as he pulls in slow, even breaths that raise and drop his chest in a soothing round of light noises. He’s sweetness personified, though goodness knows that lately that never lasts once he wakes and opens his mouth: but, like this, he’s curled up like a child, rolled on his side with his arms tucked to his chest, head bracketed by Erik’s arm on the pillow. This close, they’re sharing body heat, which is just as well, since the cell is always a bit on the cold side; Charles snuggles close without realizing it, loose-fingered, slightly curled hands just barely brushing Erik’s chest.  
  
With the arm not stretched over the pillow, Erik tugs the blanket up a bit higher, up to Charles’ shoulders. Charles has always grown cold much more easily than he has.  
  
It may be years before they find a way out. No one is coming for them. It won’t be pleasant staying here, but it’s _living_ now, in a way it was only existence before. Not good living, but it isn’t wasted time: they have things to fix. And who’s to say….  
  
Well. Before, it was a satellite dish. Then, a submarine.  
  
If Charles could get inside his mind before and so effectively enhance his powers, who’s to say that, eventually, they won’t find a way to move the whole damn earth?


	26. Day 7, August 28, 1970, 11:03

**[Day 7, August 28, 1970, 11:03]**  
  
“Your beard is getting unsightly.”  
  
Charles hardly spares him a glance. Good: that’s progress. Three days ago, he’d have snapped back with vitriol and bite.  
  
“Lucky, then, that you’re the only one to see it.”  
  
Discounting the security cameras and men behind them—which, for sanity’s sake, it’s sometimes easier to do. “Less lucky, that I’m also the one who has to kiss you with it.”  
  
“If kissing me is a hardship, then don’t,” Charles snaps peevishly.  
  
Not _so_ far from three days ago, then. And Charles, as it has become increasingly clear—he has his tempers. It had taken a few days to notice it, but Charles’ fits of ill will tend to occur around meal times. At first it had seemed most logical to attribute that to his displeasure with the food, or possibly to a reminder that there are people constantly watching them and playing god with their lives. It may be partly due to those factors… but Charles showed his hand when he downed his glass in what was clearly habit. As soon as he’d swallowed, Charles had startled, glaring down at the glass in his hand for the few seconds it took for him to wrestle back his control. Too bad that control is never complete: always, he goes for his drink before ever turning to the food. He may not follow through and gulp anything down—occasionally his hand stutters and falls on the way to grabbing for the glass—but it’s always, without fail, clearly his first thought. Only after he’s stumbled on past that craving will he turn to his food with a sort of grudging resignation.  
  
Hank, damn him, would have done well to smash Charles’ drinking glasses against the wall and inform him that meals weren’t meant to be liquid alone.  
  
“We’ve been over this: if you let yourself, you’ll go insane here. There needs to be routine, and physical upkeep is part of that. Curling up in the corner with matted, tangled hair and a runaway beard is not an option.”  
  
“It _is_ an option,” Charles pushes back, shoving his fingers up into his newly cut hair. He may not realize he’s doing it, but the memory must be ringing fresh in his mind, brought to the surface by the time of day and the beginning of a fight. “And it’s _my_ choice to make.”  
  
In a perfect world, certainly. But they’ve long since left any part of their lives when either of them would have believed the world is perfect.  
  
“Up you get,” he tells Charles with a sigh, clambering to his feet himself from where they’re seated against the bed. Bending down, he reaches for Charles, who, ever uncooperative when he’s like this, lashes out with his elbow.  
  
Times like these make it painfully obvious that Charles never learned to physically fight. He’s small, but if he’d been trained, that wouldn’t matter: it’s all about using the body to best advantage. But Charles merely hits where he thinks he can land a blow, with no thought for efficiency or subsequent consequences. In this case, he opens himself up to having his arm easily caught and twisted, not to the point of hurt, but with the force to hold Charles motionless long enough to get that arm situated over Erik’s shoulders where he can grab Charles’ wrist and haul him upward.  
  
“Are we going to do what we did with your haircut?”  
  
In answer, Charles pitches his head sideways, ostensibly to try to make contact, but the motion lacks actual commitment, and it feels like more of a token protest than a genuine escape attempt. People who truly are fighting to be released don’t relax their weight down against their captor’s side, or curl their fingers for a more reliable grip.  
  
As it turns out, Charles is quieter this time. He goes down relatively easily against the wall, confining himself to glaring rather than engaging in any further physical protestations.  
  
“I couldn’t tell you what this is made of,” he admits to Charles once he’s moved to the sink and picked up the disposable razor lying there. They send a new one every week. Whatever it is, it isn’t metal.”  
  
Charles shrugs. “They’ve been developing a new space age polymer….”  
  
“Nice to know that they go to the trouble.” Sarcastic, but Charles knows how to pick up on that. “I only get one a week, so I thought it best to wait until the day before a new one comes before we irrevocably ruin this one on your beard.”  
  
“You needn’t bother.”  
  
“No bother.”  
  
Charles seems to find offense in the wide smile accompanying that assurance: he scowls and turns away, and, out of habit, flexes his hands against his thighs. There’s no feeling that low down, but it’s beginning to seem that he’s desperate to constantly check, lest more has changed when he wasn’t paying attention.  
  
“I’ll use the scissors to cut as close as I can, then we’ll shave the rest off, all right?”  
  
“If it’s this important to you,” Charles counters, still surly, “then give me the damn razor and I’ll do it, all right? But leave me to it.”  
  
“You can’t reach the mirror.” Honesty, in this case, will do Charles more good than coddling.  
  
_[Since when do you coddle?]_  
  
“Whenever I feel that it won’t hurt you.” Charles needs to know that he’s worth that level of care. _Care_ , not indulgence, which, while he undeniably indulges Charles too, is different: indulging Charles, if done at the wrong time, can lead to harm. Care always seeks to better.  
  
_[That’s a very pretty distinction, Erik. But I think shaving me yourself is rather_ self _-indulgent.]_  
  
Not that Charles is wrong, but that’s not the whole of it. “Call it mutually beneficial.”  
  
Charles doesn’t try to hide his irritation, but he doesn’t toss out anything further, and he submits pliantly to having his head tipped back and supported, Erik’s hand curling around his chin. “Stay like that.”  
  
“If I moved, you might well impale me,” Charles answers, but he holds himself motionless when Erik releases his chin and picks up the scissors off the nearby sink. They don’t cut particularly easily through the facial hair, but it works after a little effort.  
  
“Mmm. There’s a face under here after all.” Soft, pale skin, hidden for now under the beard, but… handsome. Charles always has been, and Erik yields to the temptation to run a thumb over Charles’ bottom lip, pulling down slightly and whitening the skin before releasing it with a muted pop. Charles doesn’t fight, through his eyes flutter closed and he swallows hard.  
  
A few more snips clears the beard away a little more, and bit by bit they reach the place where a razor will be useable, and, hopefully, effective.  
  
“This isn’t necessary,” Charles murmurs just as Erik is setting the scissors aside.  
  
It _is_ , for reasons far more important than simple aesthetics. If this were only about facial hair, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. Charles may wear his hair however he likes, except when it’s due to a failure to look after himself. The only reason he looks like this is because he can’t be bothered to present himself better, and that’s—  
  
“Damn it, Erik, _stop_. I _know_.”  
  
If he knows, then why--?  
  
Oh. _Oh_.  
  
Charles must feel the realization, and it dips him down further into the downward spiral into which he’s already fallen. Though his eyes are closed, there’s tension in his jaw now, as though he’s purposely clenching it closed. And—the edges of his eyes… are wet.  
  
The beard can wait. Charles— _Charles_ should never have to wait. “All right.” Leaning over, he combs back Charles’ hair with steady hands and leans over him, pressing lips to Charles’ forehead. The skin there is warm and a hint clammy, which makes easy sense in light of Charles’ emotional agitation. “You’re all right now. It’s not— _you_ are better than what you think your actions show.”  
  
So many of Charles’ sounds are addictive, but this is one that should cease to exist: a half laugh, half sob, twisted with bitterness and the most obvious self-loathing.  
  
Charles: beautiful, clever Charles hates himself.  
  
Whatever has led to this point—whatever— _anything—_ it shouldn’t have happened. Never.  
  
And the _shame_. It’s written on Charles’ face, heavy in how he won’t look, won’t even acknowledge, and in how he submits to being cleaned up, facing the whole ordeal with an air of resigned understanding.  
  
“Damn it, Erik… you don’t _know_.” Charles shudders and hunches his shoulders, working his jaw until the joint pops and he winces instead. “Of course I’ve been pathetic. You think I don’t know it? I knew it every second.”  
  
 “You’re better than that.” That’s the whole _point_ : better than unkempt hair and alcoholism, than an untended beard and scratching at the walls.  
  
“I thought I was, once.”  
  
“You still _are_.”  
  
The compulsive itch to move—to do anything but watch Charles—prompts him to grab for a bottle of shaving cream on the sink. Pressing down on the plastic cap, he sprays a glob out into the palm of his hand. The beard is a lingering sign of exactly what Charles believes he is, and exactly what Charles is _not_ , and the longer it remains, the easier it will be for Charles to fixate. “It’s a mistake, Charles, not a definition.”  
  
But Charles whips his head to the side, nearly knocking into the wall. “I still _want_ it.”  He shudders, gasping, digging his fingers over and over into his thighs, and finally, _finally_ simply breaking down and stopping up his airways with sobs. At first they come dry, but it doesn’t take long for his eyes to spill over, and though he scrubs viciously at his cheeks with the back of his wrist, there was never any hope that he would successfully hide what’s happening.  
  
He stops trying eventually, after dodging several of Erik’s attempts to grab his chin. The third pass gains results, and although Charles grimaces at having his chin pinched between thumb and forefinger, he slumps back against the wall and stops fighting as Erik smears the shaving cream over his face. The tears quickly catch in it, but the texture stops them from mingling, and instead the tears slip over the top of the foam without being absorbed.  
  
“You _don’t_ want this,” he tells Charles quietly. “You want a drink. You want to curl up in bed. But you _don’t_ want to be a person who uses those things to hide.”  
  
No answer this time. It may be too much to hope that Charles will remain this motionless for the next few minutes, but the first swipe of the razor down over his cheek doesn’t draw any fight. Charles is stubbornly keeping his eyes averted, but that doesn’t do much to hide the tears. The wracking sobs that are shaking his chest are more of a problem, but the razor, even if it slips, isn’t large enough to cut Charles in a way that would do more than sting. Not ideal, but not deadly, and letting him cry feels like a kindness. Any longer bottling this up, and madness would have steadily begun to creep up in more permanent ways than it has so far.  
  
Swipe after swipe after swipe, pausing only to flick the mess of shaving cream and hair off into the sink. The thickness of Charles’ hair requires several passes over the same patch of skin, and by the time they’re done, they’ll have thoroughly ruined the razor.  
  
Little by little, bare skin begins to peak out. Normally, it might have been a tone lighter than the skin that had seen sun, but Charles has made a habit of so relentlessly hiding away where the sun can’t reach him, and by this point all of his skin is similarly colored: all the same colorless pale. Beautiful, but terrifying, and in no way preferable to the healthy glow he’d had before.  
  
“I’ve missed your face.”  
  
Thumbing over Charles’ lower lip, he bends down further, leaning in. Closer—and, before Charles can protest, close enough to kiss. And Charles—he hiccups, startling, but once he perceives what’s happening, he freezes and—  
  
It shouldn’t be this heartbreaking, having Charles eye him out of the corner of his eye, unsure and wrong-footed, afraid to move and break the moment, but….  
  
It is.  
  
“I’ve missed _you_ ,” he whispers out against Charles’ temple, mumbling the words into Charles’ skin. The skin wrinkles under his lips when Charles twitches, but though he does roll his jaw, when he settles, it’s with his cheek more firmly cradled in the hand—Erik’s hand—that has moved from gripping Charles’ jaw to flattening out against his opposite cheek.  
  
One kiss—only light and gentle—and another and another.  
  
After nearly half a minute, Charles has yet to try to pull away. As miraculous as it is, calling attention to it would break the moment, and there’s the last bit of shaving cream that lingers on his upper lip—and the space of chin that had been impeded by the grip needed to hold Charles still. That’s cleared up with a few more quick swipes, and—  
  
Remembering Charles like he was—sweet-faced, happy, naïve and healthy, and enchanting, always enchanting—loses itself to the dulling that tumbles every memory. Events like these—they sharpen those lapses. _This_ is Charles. Maybe not like he was, but on his way to building himself back up.  
  
_[Are you listening to me, Charles?]_  
  
A few quick blinks, followed by a nervous flickering of Charles’ gaze toward the hand on his cheek, are answer enough.  
  
With deliberation sufficient to allow Charles to truly _feel_ it, Erik curls his fingers in, scraping the nails over the newly shaved skin until his fingers are tucked under his palm, knuckles skimming the silky skin.  
  
There are a few stray tears that remain in Charles’ eyes, magnifying the intensity of their size and color. Pretty, but difficult to like when it means Charles is experiencing pain. But all that pain must have a meaning, and they will surely both be able to craft it into a purpose that makes them stronger. He and Charles. _Together_.  
  
“It will be _our_ pain.”  
  
At the sound of the words, Charles’ eyelashes fan over his cheeks again, rapidly, reflecting the confusion that he’s not bothering to hide from his expression. The motion shakes loose a few tears, one of which rolls down into the pocket under his eye, curling up in the dark smudge that’s been hollowed there by stress, alcohol, and a lack of sleep.  
  
Before Charles can try to hide it, Erik reaches up and drags the pad of his finger through the liquid, smearing it away.  
  
“I can’t separate myself from you.” God knows he’s tried. After Cuba—if he’d gone back to Westchester, he’d never have left, and so he’d run and run instead, and then Dallas—and he hasn’t gained any ground at all. “I’ve tried. And I can’t do it.” They’re as tied together as they were the first moment they fell into bed.  
  
For Charles, the belief isn’t there—not quite yet. Charles hasn’t yet found a way to look up at him without doubt, but… at least he’s finally begun to look up. Everything else will come. For now, it’s the best sort of encouragement, having Charles close his eyes and sigh, relaxing, when their foreheads meet.  
  
Somehow, he’s ended up on his knees in front of Charles, framing both sides of Charles’ face and—he was the one who pushed their faces together. But _Charles_ is the one who rolls his face up, bumping his lips into the first bit of skin he can find. Tentative at first, but he grows brave when Erik sinks in closer to him, slotting their noses side to side and nuzzling in return. This close, their breath fans out, warming them both.  
  
And Charles keeps on: a tiny kiss, pressed first to the corner of Erik’s mouth, and then higher, over the line that’s worn into his skin between the side of his nose down toward his mouth, and then anywhere Charles can reach. His movements grow sloppier, strewing kisses on any convenient patches of skin until he can more properly be said to simply be brushing his lips over Erik’s face, relearning every angle and dip.  
  
“Don’t pull away,” Charles whispers into the skin.  
  
There is only one answer for that.  
  
“I won’t.”


	27. Day 9, August 30, 1970, 14:46

**[Day 9, August 30, 1970, 14:46]**  
  
When time is as plentiful as it is in this cell, every action stretches itself to fill the hours. _Something_ has to eat up time, and if that means doing things slowly, with an excess of precision and a dearth of efficiency, then so be it. Madness is the only other alternative.  
  
And… there are perks to this system. Not many, but very occasionally the length and monotony of their days results in pleasure: Erik, taking the time to map Charles’ skin for hours on end, first with his fingers, and then with his lips, until that blossoms into more. By the time Erik has taken to tracing down Charles’ spine with the tip of his tongue, there’s no longer any plausible way to deny that pushing Erik away is increasingly becoming an idea that time and proximity are eroding.  
  
But… it isn’t that simple. There are people watching. There _must_ be. They deliver another razor in place of the old one, and they replace the shampoo bottle when the first is empty. Everything arrives in neatly sealed plastic packets that are dropped through a slot in the ceiling. And the cleaning—they haven’t yet come again, but Erik has explained that they always know when to enter: never before he’s unconscious.  
  
They’re _watching_.  
  
“Put a blanket over, would you?”  
  
Erik, whose face is pressed right about the area where the feeling in Charles’ back begins to taper off, hums thoughtfully against the skin. But he does eventually listen, craning his neck and rolling his head to the side, pressing his cheek to the skin he’d been trailing his lips over just a moment before.  
  
“Are you cold?”  
  
“No. I just—“ Sighing, he draws his arms in more securely under his own chest, tucking up neatly in preparation for what might follow—because Erik won’t understand. Erik is too unashamed… he’s always been remarkably lacking in self-consciousness about these things. It makes sense, considering that Shaw, the sadistic madman that he was, had thought it acceptable to monitor all the movements of a young boy, to the point that privacy was both simultaneously beaten out of Erik and also ingrained so strongly that it became a precious commodity reserved only for the internal: Erik guards his information and his emotions jealously, but, physically, he’s long since ceased to find modesty worth worrying over.  
  
Case in point: though he tugs a blanket toward them, he continues rubbing his face against the patch of skin that he seems to have designated as in need of attention.  
  
“Do you want me to stop?”  
  
Good to know that Erik has acknowledged the problem, though it might not be _his_ problem.  
  
Moments like these, being able to move at will feels like a long-forgotten luxury. Once, this could have been solved by drawing up a leg and poking at Erik with his foot. Now, it’s a matter of laboriously getting his elbows under himself and tugging the rest of his weight a bit further up the bed in order to reach an angle where he can peer over his shoulder at Erik. “No. Don’t stop.”  
  
Erik grins. “If you say so.”  
  
Cheeky bastard. “But I’d like a blanket.”  
  
Which is all right, since Erik is already shaking it out and tossing it over the both of them—though not before he too moves up the bed and lowers himself down against the pillow.  
  
But that’s not quite right… “I told you that I didn’t want you to stop—“  
  
“And who says I am?” he asks, ducking his head down and to the side and—  
  
Oh. All right then.  
  
“I—oh—that’s—defeats the purpose of the blanket, just moving to another place they can see—“  
  
But Erik is very good with his tongue, and since Cuba things above the waist have become more sensitive. The neck in particular—and Erik seems to have zeroed in on that remarkably quickly, focusing a great deal of his attention on trying to induce utter satisfaction by lavishing care on that particular patch of skin.  
  
And he isn’t necessarily failing.  
  
“Oh—very good…”  
  
Goodness, that moan is obscene, even to his own ears—and people are _hearing_ that. Erik loves it, knowing he can draw those sounds out, but, honestly, people are listening. It _should_ matter. “Erik—“  
  
No wonder Erik doesn’t move: burying fingers in his hair ends up being more of an encouragement than a detriment when, instead of pulling Erik off, he ends up flexing his hands against Erik’s scalp instead, like some damn cat kneading at its bedding. Right embarrassing, that is, but what Erik is doing, it’s really quite—  
  
Remarkable.  
  
And… _nice_.  
  
Just nice, to be touched like this, with so much dedication and patience.  
  
“ _Lower_.”  
  
All those times Erik didn’t listen—but here he jumps to obey, skimming his mouth lower and dabbing with the flat of his tongue until he reaches a nipple. Erik would know—fuck, Erik knows what he likes, knows every hot spot—  
  
But with the paralysis…  
  
Erik is _rediscovering_ what they both are supposed to know—and he’s doing a damn good job at it.  
  
The pressure of his teeth is hesitant at first, but there’s no use in that. Tug a little harder at his hair, coax him into it. Nothing quite like asking him for more of what he’s giving. And—yes, good, biting down harder, tonguing at the nub between his teeth.  
  
Squeaking, he arches up against Erik’s mouth, and—bloody bastard holds him down at the shoulders, grinning against the flesh in his mouth. And then he _hums._  
  
_Fuck._  
  
“Er—ik—“  
  
_[Like that, just like that like that oh please.]_  
  
Erik is only guessing, but he’s _right._ Guessing that there’s sensation in his cock—completely correct. Not like it was, but Erik guesses that too, adjusting his hand and tightening up his grip until the leftover calluses from a life of work rasp and catch against the sensitive flesh. Before, this would have been too much. Too hard. But now—it’s— _[Please…]_  
  
Too much. But—there’s the intense craving for _more_. The sensation isn’t sharp, not like it would need to be to finally get him off— _if_ this is even one of those times when his cock decides to cooperate to that extent….  
  
_[I need—]_  
  
“My mind,” Erik answers for him, drawing his head up a scant few inches and breathing out the words over the flesh that is damp from his mouth. “You need my mind. You’ve done it before. What I’m feeling, I want _you_ to feel. A feedback loop.”  
  
That easily? That’s the deepest sort of link. Erik is right: they had it before. But now is different. Everything has changed.  
  
Hasn’t it?  
  
If it has, there’s no reason not to change it again, pull Erik back to him. That growing craving for _Erik_ —this is what it was before, how it started, and if what happened before happens _again_ ….  
  
Then—  
  
Then nothing. Then it will be back to alcohol and long days staring at the wall… which is where he’d be now, if not for what’s happened. So… why not try? Why not try to be _better_? If it fails, he can go back to being worse, and it will hurt just like before.  
  
Nothing to lose, then.  
  
Erik’s mind is so very beautiful. It yields to the softest touch, and it positively _quivers_ when pushed for a deeper linking. Listening to thoughts becomes feeling sensations, and Erik opens his mouth in a wet gasp that vibrates out against the skin under his mouth, then up, up into—oh, bloody hell, in Charles’ own mind.  
  
“Let me fuck you.”  
  
“Moving rather quickly, aren’t you?” But it’s under the sheets where no one can see, and it’s not as though Erik doesn’t already _know_ that he can have Charles. Emotionally—denying that he’s Erik’s is utterly useless, and so, so pointless, when at this juncture, they’re tied together.  
  
But Erik is tied to _him_ just as tightly.  
  
Right?  
  
Either way, denying Erik now is a matter of pride. Erik would listen—he’d never physically force this—but it would be a mess of fear and pride, rather than a true expression of desires. And Erik would know that.  
  
“I can feel you burning,” Erik whispers, almost reverently. Twisting his wrist—yes, just like that, when, even dulled, the touches races up into his stomach and curls there, fire bright, and driving him mad.  
  
And—it’s mutual. Erik’s sensation bursts back through their link, smothering and comforting all at the same time. It acts like a blanket, descending over both their minds, and drawing them down further until they’re gasping with it, attacking each other’s mouths. Erik pushes forward first: a mouthful of Erik’s tongue, stroking along the inside of Charles’ teeth, up over his gums, while his hands dart toward Charles’ nipples and begin to tweak them.  
  
Anyone watching this could kill the visuals, and they’d surely still understand what’s happening: the noises are obscene. He’s never been quiet, but after years—not since before Cuba, not since _Erik_ —of having nothing but his own hand, fumbling, trying to relearn his body, silence isn’t possible. He pants and arches his back—the part still capable of it—against the sheets; Erik thrusts against his hip, and the pleasure flares in both their heads, tugging moans out of them.  
  
“Yes. Yes, you can fuck me.”  
  
Something—a wisp of _shockpleasureworry_ —but it fades, looping around into the physical spark of Erik’s arousal when Charles digs his fingernails into Erik’s shoulders, flexing his fingers and printing tiny red half-moon crescents into the skin.  
  
“Do you have anything?”  
  
Erik grunts, nipping at the underside of Charles’ chin. Odd, but the motion feels distracted, Erik’s mind already sliding off to consider the request—and a lingering emotion that hovers just out of reach, obscure until Erik himself properly feels it, rather than letting it tease at the edges of his subconscious.  
  
“ _Erik_.” More of an order than an expression of pleasure, and Erik, the bastard, must know it: he grins against the skin he’d just nipped.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The absolute _ass_ : he reaches down under the mattress, one hand fumbling while the other braces him up over Charles’ body, and tugs out a small container of Vaseline. There’s knowing that Erik sees him as an eventual sure thing, and then there’s seeing blatant proof of it—and _this_ is solidly in the latter category.  
  
“You bloody wanker—“  
  
“I don’t feel that you’re being properly appreciative, love.”  
  
“I’ll show you _properly appreciative_ —“  
  
But Erik, utterly unbothered, laughs and tips back fully onto the bed, popping off the top of the container as he goes. It isn’t an especially large container, and it’s unlikely that the government will be willing to provide more now that they know it’s being used for this, rather than for dry skin: best conserve carefully. Except, Erik doesn’t appear to be of the same mind, judging by how he scoops out a large fingerful of the jelly, coating up his fingers in it. It isn’t an ideal substance for what they’re about to do, but it’s better than anything else they might have on hand.  
  
“All right?”  
  
“I would be if you’d get on with—oh—“  
  
Erik trails his slicked fingers down Charles’ chest. The blanket has long since fallen to the side, and there’s the sudden desire to have it back—Erik jerks when that thought shoots down the feedback loop—but that disintegrates the further down Erik’s fingers go. Doesn’t have to be far: even his chest, and the attention quickly paid to his nipples, painting shiny circles around each, is enough to have him arching his neck and moaning like Erik is paying him for it.  
  
Above him, Erik is mumbling, but it’s difficult to hear over the echoing sensations. Pleasure, need, reverence—and fear? Why fear?  
  
“Erik—“  
  
“—Beautiful, Charles, I’ve missed you—“  
  
Beautiful? Like this? Not like he was, when he was still whole, but Erik is… quite clearly taken with what he’s seeing, muttering out those words down into the jut of Charles’ hip.  
  
“I’m here,” he echoes back at Erik. It shouldn’t need to be said. There’s no reason to say it—nothing but an instinctual hunch, and… perhaps the need to say it himself.  
  
Here. Here, locked away, but with Erik, with—  
  
A rush of possession gushes down the link. “Yes,” Erik agrees, tone firm—say it, and it will be so. Is that it? “I… need you to tell me—if there’s something wrong.”  
  
“I trust you.”  
  
Fuck. Trust shouldn’t be possible. This isn’t right. Trusting Erik: two weeks ago it would have seemed like insanity. But Erik won’t hurt him like this. He has _never_ caused harm like this. He’s good this way, gentle when he needs to be, and even now he tilts his head up when a touch is laid to his hair. His eyes peek up from under his lashes, staring up Charles’ torso to meet his eyes.  
  
He looks half insane. Driven mad, but focused, and drunk on what his body wants.  
  
“Because you have to,” he whispers, prompting a rush of that—that _thing_ , whatever it is, that hovers at the corners of Erik’s mind.   
  
_[You promised you wouldn’t leave]_ he pushes at Erik. And if Erik doesn’t leave, then there’s no option but to trust him, especially here.  
  
“I won’t. I—Charles, don’t you understand that I need _you_ every bit as much as you need _me_?”  
  
No. But it’s difficult to see anything: Erik, shocked—it feels like shock—at what he’s just admitted, does his best to erase it by sliding one finger down to tease at Charles’ opening. It doesn’t have quite the mind-numbing effect he doubtless hoped for: there’s a faint echo of sensation, but it’s faded, dulled by the injury. Barely there, really. Most of the pleasure he gains out of being fingered open will come from feeling what _Erik_ feels.  
  
Everything Erik feels… a little deeper would amplify that, and Erik had said it was all right to link them….  
  
Pushing forward, he nudges deeper into Erik’s mind, into the thoughts and memories associated, into—  
  
There’s white. Everything is white. It wasn’t—this isn’t associated with the sex—this is wrong, this is guilt, the guilt linked with years of thinking about losing this closeness, and—  
  
Seven years locked up in a prison, with nothing to think on besides mistakes, with that guilt reflecting back from the walls. That’s all been buried, and, _fuck_ , Erik’s mind is so precise that he’s been able to lock it away, but it’s _there_ , and now having touched it—  
  
“Get out!”  
  
Snapping back with a cry, he grinds his head down into the pillow. Everything is—is—it fades. All of it fades and reorients, forming back up as the ceiling and the sound of Erik’s labored breathing. There are hands on his hips, but they’re moving, one darting up to grab his chin.  
  
“You’re—it felt like madness—“ he chokes out, working his jaw against that hand.  
  
Erik freezes. His hand is firm, unrelenting, but Charles isn’t trying especially hard to work free of it. “I’m not crazy.”  
  
_[I didn’t say you were.]_ Erik doesn’t kick him out again. That’s a start. _[But it’s there. You—you’ve been alone a very long time, and you’ve kept yourself from going mad, but it’s there, if you let it—]_  
  
A shaky exhale, and the hand softens, thumb stroking Charles’ jaw. “I told you: I need you as much as you need me, Charles. Do you think—” A pause, in which Erik rakes his free hand through his hair, shaking his head once he’s finished, and darting his eyes from wall to wall. “Do you honestly think any man could survive being alone this long without being altered?”  
  
“I think…” Not much, at the moment. Or, rather, _too much_. Erik thought of _this_ —of mistakes, of sex, of _Charles_ —almost religiously in the years he’s been locked up. He’s combed over every second of their interactions and the implications, and… it’s one thing, to know now that there’s basis to trust Erik when he promises that, this time, he won’t leave.  
  
It’s quite another thing to know that such a basis is born from guilt and solitary confinement.  
  
“It’s self-reflection,” Erik muses dryly. “And, yes, you’re projecting: we’re still linked.”  
  
Not for lack of Erik trying, mentally railing against him like he had. It’s hard to blame him, though. Touching madness that’s been carefully locked away would trigger panic in anyone. It’s not personal: even now, there’s the taste of reluctance to Erik’s thoughts when the link untwines and draws back. That doesn’t mean… well, it doesn’t mean withdrawing from Erik’s mind entirely. The prospect of that is simply too daunting. But the feedback loop is gone.  
  
Erik, it would seem, is growing adept at recognizing the mental state of things: he smiles, mouth half quirked and thinned out wryly, but he rolls off Charles, propping up against his side instead. But, with an obvious reluctance to part contact, he keeps them close enough to touch, sides brushing—and that must not be enough: he reaches out with one hand to brush away the hair that’s fallen into Charles’ face. Even that one motion is tinged with sadness, fingers slowly working through the strands and lingering with no pretense at needing a reason beyond the fact that he simply _wants_ to. “If _you_ leave _me_ , Charles,” he begins, dragging the words out with painstaking precision, “it would destroy me. If what you felt in my mind—if that is what you want me to be, all you need to do is leave. I’ve held things together for seven years, but I always knew…” He takes in a deep breath, sucking the air through his teeth. _[If I ever had you back, I couldn’t face the prospect of isolation again.]_  
  
“I wouldn’t—“ He turns his face into Erik’s touch, bumping his cheek against Erik’s fingers. “I won’t—“  
  
But he’s thought about it. Being the one to walk away this time, leaving Erik to pick up the pieces… _of course_ the thought has knocked at his mind, trying to gain entrance. The allure of hurting Erik like Erik hurt him….  
  
It would mean nothing.  
  
Hurting Erik is—it’s only hurting _himself_ , isn’t it? Bloody awful, knowing that, but there’s just no point in trying to duck away from it.  
  
“I won’t leave,” he murmurs, giving into the desire to close his eyes and relax into Erik’s petting. Let Erik coddle and cosset for a few hours, when it’s really what both of them want. Him, because… it’s Erik. And Erik… it’s not so simple, figuring why he needs this, but there’s credence to the idea that there’s no greater reassurance than being the one to give care and comfort, no greater control over another human being than being allowed the emotional access necessary to comfort him.   
  
The hand in his hair tightens, and while perhaps that ought to be alarming, he can’t muster the fear necessary to force himself to open his eyes.  
  
“ _Promise me_.” The words come out gravelly and edged with desperation. The emotion seeps into Erik’s physicality, and he gives Charles a tiny shake. Not nearly enough to hurt—and it almost feels good. Sharp, real, but not painful.  
  
When things feel real like this—real like they haven’t been for years now—the answer comes easily.  
  
“I promise.”


End file.
